


Hummingbirds

by strangeandcharm



Series: Hummingbirds [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angelic Grace, Angst, Castiel Whump, Dean Whump, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mute Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2152935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandcharm/pseuds/strangeandcharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is rendered mute after being taught a painful lesson, but that enables Dean to learn a few lessons of his own while holding onto something important for him. Elsewhere, someone <i>really</i> loves to count...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally posted on LiveJournal on 26 April 2011.)

~ ~ ~

 

 

Dean Winchester was used to walking into traps set by demons: hell, he’d made a career out of it. Angels, on the other hand? Not so much. It happened quickly, that lightning-fast sensation of “here” followed by a sensation of “somewhere new”, and then he was being thrown back-first against something hard and cold while hands yanked his wrists behind it and secured them fast with rope.

“What,” he grunted, because it was the first word that popped into his head. He couldn’t even see the winged dickwad responsible for zapping him here, but what he _could_ see was a familiar woman in a suit kneeling in front of him, back turned as though Dean wasn’t even worth glancing round to look at. She was drawing on the ground in charcoal, joining up the lines of a large circle filled with sigils on the concrete floor of... of… wherever they were.

Dean glanced around, scanning the building to get his bearings. He was standing in the basement level of a parking lot. Most of the harsh neon strip lights were off, throwing much of the place into shadow, but they lit up his corner well enough to see that there were angels all around him – some standing between cars, two apparently guarding the elevator, several by the shuttered, drop-down metal gate of the entrance. Dean counted them automatically, fast and practised: seventeen. They all looked like FBI agents, dark-suited and brooding.

“What is this – a Blues Brothers convention?” he quipped, tugging against the ropes. He was tied fast. Nobody even looked at him; they were all staring at the circle. The air was thrumming with electricity, so strong that Dean could taste ozone mixed in with engine oil when he swallowed. It wasn’t pleasant. None of this was pleasant. He was surrounded by Raphael’s cronies and their head honcho was drawing a circle on the ground before him. This really, _really_ wasn’t good.

Raphael rose to her feet – or ‘his’ feet, if you wanted to be pedantic; this was confusing – and turned to face him, movements smooth and collected like only a self-assured douche of an archangel’s could be. She didn’t even bother looking him in the eye, simply pulling out a familiar silver blade and holding it at Dean’s throat, staring at it impassively as Dean swallowed, his adam’s apple bumping uncomfortably against the metal.

“You are not important,” Raphael declared, her voice a dull monotone.

Dean raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Really? And here was me thinking you were about to throw me a kegger.”

The blade pressed into his skin. Dean gasped as it drew blood and tried to flinch away, but Raphael merely leaned forward and pushed deeper. Warmth spilled down Dean’s neck and he hissed, convinced that the angel had severed an artery before sensing, to his relief, that the wound wasn’t quite that bad.

“Your blood is the only important thing about you now,” said Raphael, wiping some of the liquid onto her fingers. “That’s all you are to us, human. A bag of blood.”

“You guys been reading too much _Twilight_? Started hankering after the vampire lifestyle? I gotta tell you, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. It’s hard to be emo when you have no emotions.”

Raphael still hadn’t met his eyes. She nodded at someone unseen behind Dean’s back and suddenly there was soft material being pushed into his mouth as he was gagged, firmly and efficiently, the unexpected loss of air almost making him panic. He grunted as the knot was tied hard at the back of his head and tried his damnedest to spit out the fabric, but it was a lost cause and he knew it. He wriggled his fingers and strained at the ropes holding his wrists, knowing that he had a small knife hidden in his sleeve for these kind of occasions, but the fact there was an angel standing right behind him, probably watching his hands for all he knew, meant that trying to cut himself free was unwise. He was trapped.

“Mmmph,” he muttered, indignant.

Raphael turned away again, Dean’s blood dripping from her outstretched fingers. She knelt and dabbed it in the center of the circle, drawing a symbol Dean recognized somehow, though heaven only knew from where. He was fairly certain he’d never seen it before but something about it resonated with him, seemed familiar in a way he couldn’t quite fathom. It wasn’t until Raphael stood again, stepped out of the circle and spat out a word he knew that Dean put two and two together.

_“Castiel.”_

The blood turned to white flame. Dean watched in creeped-out fascination as the sigil written in his blood, a sigil that could only be Castiel’s name in Enochian, burned like magnesium on the concrete floor. The charcoal around it started to glow a deep, cool blue as Raphael chanted a string of words that made Dean shudder and want to scratch at his skin. This was some heavy shit angel mojo.

“Castiel,” Raphael said again, lifting the bloodstained blade. “Your little human toy is calling you.”

Dean’s eyes widened. Oh, great. So that was why Raphael had needed his blood: to make Castiel think that Dean was calling him. Which meant that he was bait for a trap, one designed to capture his friend. How humiliating: Dean hated being the damsel in distress. He swept his eyes around the lot, noticing how all the angels were holding silver blades; how so many of them were bigger than Castiel. If he showed up, he was gonna get his ass kicked and then some.

_Don’t you dare come here,_ he prayed furiously, hoping Castiel was listening. _It’s a trap and I’ll never forgive you if you turn up. Don’t you come here!_

“He can’t hear you,” Raphael drawled, her words mild and faintly amused. “Your thoughts can’t go anywhere right now. As far as he’s concerned, you just called him with this sigil. He won’t know the difference.”

“Mmmmph!” Dean grunted, outraged, and sent a few thoughts Raphael’s way for good measure – none of them flattering. There was no response. Raphael simply stood shock-still, staring down at the sigil, and for the space of a few moments nobody in the lot moved at all.

And then Castiel appeared smack-bang in the center of the circle.

Every angel took a step forward and lifted their weapon; Raphael, who was unarmed, simply raised her head. “Hello, traitor,” she announced in a voice that didn’t sound any different than when she’d spoken to Dean.

To his credit, Castiel took in the situation so quickly that Dean barely even saw his expression change. He glanced around the room, looked down at the circle and back up at Raphael. His eyes flicked to Dean, who shrugged helplessly, before they rested on Raphael’s face again.

“Trickery doesn’t become you, Raphael,” he said. “This deceit isn’t worthy of an archangel.”

“I use deceit to capture one who is deceitful beyond all others.”

Castiel’s expression stayed neutral. “It isn’t deceitful to tell the truth to those who have been deceived.” He narrowed his eyes. “If you’re going to kill me, I suggest you do it quickly. I have no patience for your games.”

Raphael started to move around the circle, which Dean belatedly realized was keeping Castiel trapped. At least, he assumed so: there had to be a reason why the angel hadn’t _bamfed_ out of there already. Dean wondered if other angels could move in and out of the circle, seeing as it wasn’t like the one he was used to seeing, the one made from holy oil. And it had seemed tailored specifically for Castiel, given that his name was in it. But Raphael stayed outside the lines as she walked. Castiel merely watched her.

“You’re the one who has been playing games, Castiel. This rebellion you’ve been leading vexes me.”

“You’ll excuse me if I don’t apologize,” Castiel said archly.

“You know you can’t win. You had your fun when you took the side of humans and sent Lucifer back into Hell, but it’s over now. The Apocalypse will come.”

Castiel looked at Dean. There was the merest flicker of regret in his eyes before he turned back to Raphael. “It’s wrong to go against God’s will, Raphael, and you know it.”

“And you think He’s on your side?”

“He brought me back. Twice. I would say that’s a sign He has some purpose for me, yes. I choose to think this is it. To stop you becoming drunk on your own power and–”

He didn’t finish. Raphael reached into the circle and grabbed him by the throat, squeezing so tightly that Castiel’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened in shock. “You are mistaken,” Raphael hissed. “Our Father doesn’t care what we do. He has left us. He has left this planet to this... this... filth.” She nodded across at Dean, who gave her his best _eat shit and die_ look. “You are leading an army of fools and I will make sure they realize their mistake.”

Castiel’s hands reached up to his neck and struggled to pull Raphael’s fingers away. The archangel released him but didn’t step back, staring into Castiel’s eyes with a fierceness that was anything but human. Castiel staggered a little but recovered quickly, swallowing hard.

“This is misguided,” he rasped. “You are the fool.”

“Words won’t–”

Castiel was fast, Dean had to give him that. The silver angel-sword was in his hand so quickly Dean’s eyes couldn’t even follow it as it arced upwards and into Raphael’s ribcage – or at least, that’s where it should have gone. Raphael was faster. She stepped backwards and another angel took her place, gripping Castiel’s wrist and twisting it sideways. Castiel didn’t drop the sword; instead he twisted his entire body in return, sweeping a leg out to catch the angel’s left ankle, forcing him to his knees. As he fell the guy loosened his grip on Castiel’s wrist. The sword had slashed across his throat a heartbeat later.

“This shouldn’t be about killing!” Castiel yelled, but it was too late: three angels leapt into the circle, pinning his arms behind him and shoving him to the ground beside his twitching, gasping victim. There was a glimmer of light, a rush of wind and Dean squeezed his eyes shut to save them as the angel died in a burst of energy. When he opened them again, Raphael was holding Castiel’s bloodstained sword and Castiel was struggling uselessly against the hands holding him in place.

“Even if you kill me, all you will do is create a martyr,” Castiel said. “My followers will not give up.”

“I can make them think twice,” Raphael announced. “I can show them how I punish traitors.” She beckoned for the angels holding Castiel to step out of the circle. They did, leaving him on his knees in the middle, panting for breath. “Unfold your wings,” Raphael continued.

Castiel’s expression changed from defiance to confusion. “What?”

“Your wings. I’m going to take them.”

There was an odd, echoey noise. It took Dean a few seconds to recognize what it was: the sound of all the angels standing around them gasping at once. It echoed from the concrete walls. He shot a look at them and was surprised by how stunned they all seemed, although when he turned back to the circle nothing matched the look of horror on Castiel’s face.

“You won’t do that,” the angel said in a low, careful voice, his eyes flashing steel.

“Desperate times, Castiel. Dead? You would inspire more to follow you.” Raphael took a step forward, raising the sword. “Wingless, though... You are shamed and ruined.”

Castiel rose to his feet, his eyes fixed on Raphael’s face. Dean could see that he was seriously rattled but was trying desperately to hide it. “If you take my wings you will only prove how insane you are,” he growled, as the angels around them shifted nervously. “Such a thing has not been done since before Lucifer fell.”

“Which is why it needs to be done now,” Raphael said calmly. “Open your wings, traitor. It’s time the angels of Heaven learned where ‘free will’ can get them.”

“Go to Hell,” Castiel rumbled. Dean was struck by how un-Castiel-like he sounded. If anything, he sounded weirdly like Sam.

Raphael didn’t even blink, but the three angels who’d been holding Castiel a few moments ago were suddenly back inside the circle. They forced him face-down on the concrete floor, another woman joining them to hold Castiel’s feet still as he struggled. The fact he _was_ struggling made Dean’s stomach flip; Castiel was usually too cool, too confident to do something so desperate. For the first time Dean felt genuinely afraid for him, even if he didn’t quite understand what was going on here. Raphael was going to take his wings – did that mean she was going to cut them off? Magic them away? Break them? Dean had no idea. Whatever it was, it was shocking enough a concept for the remaining angels to look slightly sickened. Several backed further into the shadows surrounding the parked cars, as though they couldn’t stand to watch what was going to happen.

“Let the human go,” Castiel demanded, as two angels pulled his arms out either side of him, spread-eagling him on the floor.

Raphael tilted her head. “You care more for humans than your own kind.”

“Some are worth more than my own kind.” Castiel managed to lift his head enough to meet Dean’s eyes; he could only stare down at him helplessly, unable to speak or move. There was something in his gaze Dean couldn’t quite read – an apology, perhaps, or a plea for help – and then Castiel’s head lowered again. “You can’t do this!” he grimaced, as the angels holding him flat stilled and froze over him.

“You should stop focusing on the things I can’t do, _brother_ , and worry about the things I can.” And with that, Raphael walked into the circle, stepped over Castiel until she straddled the backs of his thighs and dropped to her knees either side of them. She leaned forward, running a hand down Castiel’s spine, and said something Dean couldn’t make out.

The lights flickered and buzzed, flashing sparks all around them. A wind blew through the garage, hot and electric, and Dean looked around him in sudden alarm. And then... and then all he could see were wings, arcing beautifully upwards from Castiel’s shoulderblades, black, shadowy, intangible and yet tangible; unfolding with delicate precision until they reached out for at least ten, maybe fifteen feet either side of him. Dean stared at them, awed, breathing them in with his eyes, and then his eyes started to water and ache but still he stared because they were _amazing_.

“Dean, close your eyes,” Castiel gasped, as his wings twitched and shuddered. Dean saw Raphael extend a hand to the left wing and then his eyes began to feel hot, sore and prickly, so he closed them. He dropped his head, feeling tears swooping down his cheeks, gathering his senses and remembering that he wasn’t supposed to look at Castiel’s true angel-form or he’d lose his eyesight. The wings looked like shadows, true, but they weren’t; they were part of him, something humans shouldn’t see, and they were enough to scald his eyeballs.

Because he couldn’t open his eyes any more, Dean was left with no choice but to listen.

There was a sharp _crack_ , sounding for all the world as though someone had stepped on a dry twig, although Dean recognized it instantly for what it was: a bone breaking. Another followed almost immediately, and another. There was no sound from Castiel, although Dean could hear his breathing had speeded up... at least, he thought it was Castiel’s breathing. There were angels all around him and he didn’t need his eyes to sense their disquiet, to feel how uneasy they were; they hissed through their teeth with each snap of bone, clearly feeling each break as though it were their own.

It went on and on, bone after bone, some loud, some dull, some liquid; sometimes more than one snapped at once, a cluster of bones splintering as though giant hands had squeezed them, and still Castiel didn’t scream, or groan, or speak. The garage grew quieter and quieter until all there was was the pop of gristle and crack of fracturing wingbones and all Dean could do was grit his teeth and _listen_ , on and on, until he thought it would never, ever end. How many bones did Castiel have in his wings anyway? Was Raphael breaking the rest of his body, too?

When it stopped, he felt the soft exhalations of the angels around him as they relaxed, sighing in relief. He was tempted to open his streaming eyes but fought the urge, not wanting to see the mess Raphael had caused before him. How had Castiel stayed quiet through that? How hard must he have tried not to scream?

“You see? You see where his actions have brought him?” Raphael called out, her voice echoing off the walls of the garage.

There was no response. Then Castiel whispered, “ _Finish it._ ” He sounded breathless and agonized, barely able to form words, and Dean’s heart melted for him.

“As you wish, traitor,” Raphael said obligingly, and Dean shuddered as he heard the unmistakable sound of metal sawing into bone.

This time Castiel _did_ scream. He screamed loud and deep, the sound muffling from time to time as he turned his head to and fro, away from Dean and then back to him again. The sawing continued unabated, rhythmic, determined, and Dean could just imagine the look on Raphael’s face as she worked; smug, deliberate, uncaring. It seemed to take forever. Castiel’s screams became frantic, indecipherable words, panted out in desperation and pain. Minutes passed, long, endless minutes, and Dean felt tears on his cheeks and realized that this time they weren’t there because his eyes hurt. He tried to speak against the gag in his mouth but all he could do was hum his rage and sympathy in his throat, a sound swallowed up by that infinite, inexorable _sawing_.

There was a sharp, high-pitched snap. Castiel gave a strangled, pitiful cry and the sawing stopped just as a strange, overwhelming current of something cold and angry swept through the building. Every hair on Dean’s body stood on end; the only time he’d ever felt something so horrendous was when he’d been in the presence of Death. But this was different. It wasn’t death, it wasn’t the end of something; it felt more like the _corruption_ of something. Blasphemy. From the muffled sounds of feet moving anxiously in place around him, the other angels had felt it too, and they really didn’t like it.

“I could stop now,” Raphael said quietly, her voice somewhere near the ground. Dean assumed she was leaning over Castiel until she could mutter in his ear. “Do you wish me to stop, Castiel?”

“Yes, yes,” Castiel moaned, sounding out of his head with pain.

“Swear fealty to me and I’ll leave you this wing.”

Dean felt sick. All that sawing, and she’d only severed _one wing?_ There was another to go! How could Castiel stand it?

There was a drawn-out, breathless silence, and Dean leaned forward as far as he could to hear the response. He wasn’t even sure how he wanted Castiel to reply. He wanted the pain to stop for him, but he didn’t want Raphael to win here. He wondered if Castiel was juggling the two issues himself, or if he was too far gone to care.

“Take it,” Castiel gasped, sounding half-dead and infinitely furious all at once. “I will... never... follow you.”

Dean opened his eyes in surprise. It was just for a few seconds, a totally instinctive reaction to the defiance in Castiel’s voice, but it was enough. He saw blood. Everywhere. Vast sprays of it patterning the floor and the ceiling. Red bones lying twisted and torn like some giant carcass had been ripped to shreds before him. Black, jagged feathers lying in messy heaps. Raphael sitting back on her heels over Castiel’s thighs, silver sword no longer silver in her hand, a look of rage on her face that turned Dean’s insides to ice. And Castiel... Castiel painted scarlet from head to toe, his arms and legs still pinned by the blood-spattered angels holding him still.

One wing was jutting upwards from Castiel’s back, twisted into terrible, impossible angles but still anchored at the base to the small, heaving torso below. The other wing was lying in pieces on the floor. So much blood.

Castiel had dug trails in the concrete floor with his fingernails, red lines of agony that stayed in Dean’s vision even as he slammed his eyes shut again.

The sawing started up again. Slower.

Castiel screamed twice. That was all he managed. His voice cracked, shattered and fell silent. Dean hoped he was unconscious, but he could tell by his frenzied breathing that he was feeling every slide and grate of Raphael’s sword. Soft whimpers eventually began to fall from his ruined throat, as though silence was too much for him.

The mutilation dragged on, relentless, unforgiving. Dean couldn’t know for sure but it felt like at least an hour had passed since this began, maybe even two. His eyes were sore and his entire body was shaking from anger and adrenalin. It hadn’t even occurred to him that the angels might kill him after this: he’d been too focused on Castiel to worry about himself. Once, Castiel would have been able to bring him back from death. After this, would his powers still be the same? Would he even be an angel without those wings?

“Which should I cut last, Castiel?” asked Raphael, a casual, gloating croon coloring her words. “Your bone or your nerves? I can’t decide which to sever. Such a beautiful decision.”

Castiel didn’t reply.

“You will be nothing now. You will be like these animals, flawed, weak and useless. Your followers will disperse, seeking forgiveness from me, and I shall forgive them. Humanity will fall and Paradise will be restored.”

There was a choked, ragged gasping sound. “You... should cut... the bone,” said Castiel. “You’re already... getting on my... nerves...”

Raphael paused before declaring, “Enjoy your new life, human _trash_.”

Something snapped. Castiel made the kind of sound that Dean had only heard in Hell, a gurgling, cut-off wail that spoke of pain beyond any other. It had only just left his lips when that unsettling wave of wrongness swept through the garage again, a chilling, nauseating dissonance that made Dean’s legs feel weak. He didn’t quite know what it was, but it felt as though something – someone, even – was angry. He wondered if it was God, but that was a dumb idea. God could’ve stepped in and stopped this at any time.

“Raphael,” said one of the angels holding Castiel down, sounding just as weirded-out as Dean felt. “This wasn’t... I mean, this shouldn’t have...”

“We have his wings,” Raphael said calmly. “Let’s pin them to the gates of Heaven and watch the fear spread.”

The air moved on Dean’s skin, and he knew without opening his eyes that the angels had gone. A silence fell, punctuated only by the rasping breaths from the floor a few feet away. Castiel sounded as though he was drowning on dry land.

Dean risked opening an eyelid. To his amazement, everything was different. The blood had gone. The broken bones had gone. There were no feathers. Castiel was lying beside the body of the angel he’d killed earlier, their clothes totally clean and tidy. He was face down, head positioned on one curled arm, his body shaking and heaving. Dean stared at him, wondering if he’d imagined the whole thing, before spotting the bloodied grooves cut into the concrete floor. Castiel’s fingernails were red and raw. That was real. That was something Dean could see, even if the carnage of Castiel’s ruined wings was invisible to a human.

Shock over, Dean flexed his arms behind the pillar until the knife slipped into his palm. He hacked away at the ropes holding him with hands that shook – which meant it took him a few minutes longer than it should have done – then yanked off the gag the moment he was free. He had to take a moment to rub his palms over his eyelids, easing the prickly, sore pain as much as he could, before crossing over to the circle in two paces, kicking a line through it and watching as Castiel jerked a little with the breaking of the spell.

He fell to his knees beside him, rolling him over gently. “Cas? Hey, are you okay? Is there anything–”

He had just enough time to see the desperate, agonized expression on Castiel’s pale face before two hands shot up, grabbed him by the neck and pulled him down. Cold lips collided with his and Dean flinched, utterly astounded as Castiel kissed him passionately, pulling his jaw down until his mouth had opened enough for a tongue to enter it. He wanted to pull back, to run away, to get the hell outta Dodge, but Castiel held him firm and opened his own mouth, eyelids fluttering.

Something entered Dean’s mouth that wasn’t tongue or breath or anything he recognized. He struggled, suddenly scared, as scorching heat seared him, easing into his throat, down his windpipe, into his lungs, hot and alive and _not right_. He pushed at Castiel again, trying to force his hands away, but the heat kept on coming, filling him up and burning inside him until he couldn’t stand it any more; it was an electric current, a scalding river of lava that was tearing him apart, roasting him, hurting him...

He shoved harder, finally breaking Castiel’s grip. The angel hit the floor with a groan, his eyes rolling, hands falling limply either side of him. Dean gasped in one breath, missed the next two and managed the third before everything turned to flame and fire and he fell hard on Castiel’s chest. After that, there was only blackness.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The first thing Dean saw when he opened his eyes was Sam’s face. “Hey you,” said his brother, his forehead creased in concern. “How you feelin’?”

Dean looked around him, although it was difficult to move his eyes as they felt like sandy marbles in his head. He was in a hospital bed. The room was way too sunny and he felt hot, uncomfortable and sore. “Water,” he croaked, wondering why his throat felt like the tarmac at a speedway track. Sam pressed a plastic cup into his hand a moment later, watching intently as Dean lifted it to his mouth. It had a straw. Dean scowled at it. “What’m I, a kid?”

“I did try to find you a _bendy_ straw but the canteen was all out.”

Dean glared at him and drank. The water was cold, liquid pleasure inside him. By the time he emptied the cup he felt halfway himself again, and that was when the memories came flooding back. “Cas,” he gasped, grabbing Sam’s arm.

“He’s here. It’s a long story, but he’s okay.”

“Okay? Really? Raphael hacked off his wings!”

Sam looked absolutely stunned at that. “What?”

“Where is he? I want to see him!” Dean tried to sit up but the room moved sideways, like he was on a ship. He rolled with it, collapsing in a tangle of sheets until Sam held him firm and propped him up again.

“Calm down, man, he’s not going anywhere. You can barely sit up.”

“He did somethin’ to me,” Dean murmured, touching his lips with a shaking finger.

“Slow down. Tell me what happened.”

“Is he really okay?”

Sam shrugged. “He’s a few rooms down. He woke up this morning and the doctors say he’s fine. He’s not talking, though. At all. Me and Bobby were hoping you could fill us in on what happened.”

Dean released a breath of relief and closed his eyes for a few moments. Then he told Sam everything he knew, ending with that weird, burning kiss from Castiel that had knocked him out. Sam’s expression went from ‘amused’ to ‘trying not to show it’ to simply ‘baffled’ as Dean explained it.

“So, what, he kissed you so hard you passed out? He must’ve learned a lot more from the pizza guy since his first kiss.”

“No, it wasn’t a kiss. I mean, it was, but it was... different.” Dean stroked his neck gingerly, remembering the heat. “I know it sounds crazy, Sam, but I think he – put something inside me.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Like _Alien_ -facehugger-putting-something-inside-you?”

“I’m being serious, dude.” Dean couldn’t help but rub his stomach though, slightly unnerved at the comparison. If a baby Castiel popped out of his belly in the next few days, he’d be really pissed.

“So what was it?”

Dean shrugged. “It burned, but it wasn’t really hot, exactly. I haven’t got blisters or anything. I think it was hot because it was part of him, part of him as an angel.”

“You mean his grace?”

Dean didn’t answer, but he let his expression do the talking for him.

“I thought you had to be his special vessel to hold something like that?” Sam looked completely stupefied.

“You have to be special to hold _him_ ,” Dean clarified, thinking fast. “All of him, that is. But his grace is only part of him, maybe. And maybe it isn’t so picky. Is he still Castiel? That’s not Jimmy in that other bed, is it?”

Sam looked thoughtful. “I don’t think so. He hasn’t said anything though. He...” He stopped, as though wondering if he should reveal more, which really got Dean’s alarm bells ringing. “I don’t think he understands us,” Sam continued carefully. “Every time we speak to him, he just looks at us, blank. It’s kinda weird.”

Dean processed the news. “Is Bobby with him now?”

“Yep. Bobby and Sheriff Mills.”

“What’s she doin’ here?”

“Long story short: a security guard found you and Cas with a dead guy by your side. The police were crawling all over this place while you were out of it – they thought you’d killed him. Anyway, once we finally tracked you down, Bobby got Sheriff Mills to pull a few strings and she’s on the case now. Good thing Raphael didn’t take you out of the state.”

Dean frowned. “How long was I asleep?”

“Two days.”

“Wow.” Dean rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Guess that’s why I gotta pee so much right now, huh?”

Sam helped him into the bathroom, waited by the door and helped him back into bed. Walking was weird. Dean felt a bit like a snowglobe; everything was fine when he kept still, but the moment he moved around his insides shook up and floated around, making him light-headed and a little nauseous. “These drugs are pretty wild,” he declared, leaning forward so Sam could flump up his pillow for him.

“You aren’t on any drugs,” Sam replied, staring at him evenly. “The doctors didn’t know why you were unconscious. You’re running a little hot so they were going to give you some antibiotics in case you had an infection, but I don’t think they’ve done it yet.”

“Oh.” Dean looked down at his stomach ruefully. “I guess the Alien baby’s giving me morning sickness. Great.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Dean slept for a few more hours, ate a little food and then demanded to see Castiel. Sam helped him down the corridor, teasing him the whole way about the fact his hospital gown was open at the back (Dean discovered later that it wasn’t, but he was still too foggy to figure it out at the time). By the time he walked into the room housing Castiel, Bobby and a rather nonplussed Jody Mills, his stomach was so full of weird trembles and quivers that it felt as though it was full of hummingbirds. He’d never experienced anything like it; it was almost as though there was something alive in there. Maybe there was.

“You look like a stiff breeze’d knock you over,” Bobby said by way of welcome. Dean flashed him a sarcastic half-smile, nodded at the Sheriff and turned to the bed.

Castiel was sitting upright in the same blue gown Dean was wearing, looking pale and delicate but a damn sight better than the last time Dean had seen him. He was staring up at Dean with an expression that seemed weirdly apologetic. “How are you, Cas?” Dean asked, slowly making his way to the side of the bed.

Castiel glanced at Bobby, then back at Dean. He shrugged, shaking his head.

“He don’t understand ya,” Bobby said. “We’ve been tryin’ to get some sense outta him all day.”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Seriously?”

“I thought maybe he was deaf,” said the Sheriff, folding her arms. Her badge twinkled in the sunlight. “But he can hear alright – we tested him. It’s like he just forgot English.”

Dean looked down at Castiel, who looked up at him in return. “Cas?” he queried. Castiel thinned his lips, frowning a little, but it was all he had. It honestly looked as though he didn’t recognize his own name.

Sam came to stand by Dean’s side. “We tried giving him a notebook, thinking maybe he could write stuff down or draw pictures, seeing as he can’t speak. Look.” He handed Dean a pad of paper. The only thing Castiel had written on it was the number four.

“That’s not crazy at all,” Dean murmured. “Why do I feel like I’m on _Shutter Island_?”

“You woke up at four o’clock,” Bobby said. “Could just be coincidence, but he seemed to know before it happened. Got all fidgety, wrote that down and kept looking at the clock.”

Castiel took the notebook from Dean’s hand. He held his hand out, wiggling his fingers, until the Sheriff got the hint and gave him a pen. Castiel started to sketch something on the page, brow furrowed, absolutely engrossed in what he was doing. He was fast: in the space of about half a minute he’d finished. He handed the pad back to Dean, who looked down at a surprisingly lifelike picture of a hummingbird.

“Huh,” he breathed, staring at it. “That’s... er... pretty. Wanna whip me up a rainbow and a kitten while you’re feeling so artistic there, Cas?”

Castiel pointed at Dean’s stomach, then pointed at the notebook. With a shiver of insight, Dean finally got it. “Oh, hey. He read my mind.”

“You were thinking about a bird?” Sam asked, puzzled.

“Yeah, in a way. When I walked in here, my guts felt strange. Like I had a flock of hummingbirds in there. I only thought it for a moment, but I guess he picked up on it.”

Castiel was looking around at them all, clearly trying to see if they’d understood his message. He seemed to read the answer on their faces and relaxed a little. Then he did something strange, reaching out to take Dean’s wrist, wrapping his fingers around it gently. Dean stared at his hand in puzzlement before a curious head-rush made him draw in a deep breath and stagger, white lights twinkling at the edges of his vision. He was only marginally aware of Sam helping him into a chair and carefully prising Castiel’s fingers off his skin; there was a rushing in his ears that seemed to mimic singing, and he felt as though he was flying.

“Dean!” A hand slapped at his cheek and he blinked out of it with a gasp. Sam was kneeling before him. Castiel was lying back on the bed, staring over at Dean with that apologetic expression again. He looked paler than he had earlier.

“I’m here,” Dean said, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. He touched me and everything went all fluffy.” Dean coughed, trying to slow down his heartbeat a little. “I can’t decide if I liked it or not. I feel kinda glowy. Like I’m stoned.”

“If he dumped some of his grace inside ya, I guess he just communicated with it in some way,” Bobby theorized.

“Yeah, that’s what it felt like. Whew, that’s some Grade-A ganja.”

Sheriff Mills took a deep, patient breath. “Y’know, I’m still having some issues with this. Y’all are talking about angels as though they’re real. Zombies I get, but angels...? I don’t know. This could be a step too far.”

“It’s a shame Cas is out of commission. He does this disappearing trick you’d absolutely love,” Sam smiled. He stood, leaving Dean on the chair, and came to stand at the end of the bed. “Okay, so. Dean’s got Castiel’s grace inside him and Castiel’s only able to communicate by drawing psychic pictures. Now what?”

Castiel moaned. He closed his eyes and dropped his head on the pillows, rolling his shoulders as though he was in pain. A few seconds later he leaned forward again, grimacing, as though it hurt to lie back. Dean was surprised to see that he was shaking. “Hey, hey,” he soothed, resisting the urge to take his hand. “You okay?”

Castiel buried his face in his hands, shivering, ignoring him.

“It should pass in a few minutes,” Sheriff Mills said, her voice tight with sympathy. “He’s been doing this every hour or so since he woke up. The rest of the time he’s just fine.”

“Oh, he’s anything but _fine_ ,” came a bitter voice from behind them.

Everybody jumped. Dean shot to his feet, barely even noticing the dizziness that swept over him as he stared at Balthazar, who was regarding him with a sneer worthy of a comic-book supervillain. The angel glanced from Castiel in the bed to Dean and back again, his expression filled with so much disgust that Dean suddenly wanted to punch him. “Balthazar,” he snarled, mostly for the benefit of Bobby and Sheriff Mills, who were staring at the new arrival in abject shock.

“This is a disaster,” Balthazar said, rubbing a hand over his chin. “I don’t suppose you brainless chimps have the faintest idea what’s going on, but this really is the cock-up to end all cock-ups.”

“Tell us how you _really_ feel,” Bobby muttered, frowning at him.

Balthazar none-too-gently brushed past Sam and leaned over the bed, placing a hand on Castiel’s forehead. Castiel realized he was there for the first time, his eyes widening as he recognized him, but didn’t say a word; he just shivered, face twisted in pain. “You’re in a right old pickle, aren’t you, my dear?” Balthazar murmured, fingers brushing Castiel’s cheek. “I can’t believe you ended up like this.”

“Raphael hacked off his wings,” Dean explained, although he assumed Balthazar already knew or he wouldn’t be here. “Then he shoved his grace inside me. Can you get it out?”

“Sure, sure,” said Balthazar, straightening. “I’ll just go get my tin opener, shall I? Peel you open like a can of sardines.”

“Er...” That hadn’t been the response Dean had been hoping for. Balthazar watched him wondering if he was being serious or not and suddenly clapped him on the arm, hard.

“Cheer up, my simian friend. You’re alive! And you really, really shouldn’t be. You should’ve gone up like a firework the moment that grace touched you, so I suppose this means you’re special in some way. Must’ve eaten up all your Wheaties this morning.”

Sam stepped forward, a familiar _oh-so-Sam_ look of consternation on his face. “Wait. You mean Cas could’ve killed him by doing this?”

“Oh yes.” Balthazar glanced down at Castiel again – he’d stopped grimacing now, and seemed to be in less pain – then smiled sweetly at the brothers. “But don’t go blaming him. I’m sure if he’d thought about it for more than two seconds he wouldn’t have touched you at all. Cas is quite fond of you, and I dare say he wouldn’t have wanted you to turn into a human Catherine wheel. He was acting on instinct, like a drowning man clutching at the guy who’s rescuing him. Sometimes the guy drowns; sometimes he doesn’t. You’re obviously a good swimmer, Dean.”

“So how do I get it out of me?” Dean snapped, trying not to think about the fact he should be dead. _Thanks, Cas. Don’t do me any favors._

“Get it out of you? But where on Earth would you put it? You can’t put it back in him. Not yet, anyway.”

“Why not?”

Balthazar closed his eyes and took a breath, as though he was talking to a very young, very stupid child who needed something extremely simple explained to him. When he opened them again, he glared at Dean with a mixture of hatred and condescension that shocked Dean so much he almost missed what he said.

“Okay, I’ll start at the beginning, seeing as you’re totally incapable of figuring it out for yourself. He had his wings hacked off, right? I’ll have you know that this isn’t something that usually happens – it’s been thousands of years since the last example of barbaric limb-tearing, and by doing it now Raphael’s crossed a line that will lose him this war. But that’s beside the point. The point is that Castiel should be dead. Wings aren’t like your puny little arms or spindly human legs: they’re not just physical. They’re tied into our grace, into our very essence. If our wings are damaged, our... lifeforce, I supposed you could call it, is damaged too. Rip off a wing or two and you’ve got yourself a very sick angel.”

Dean looked down at Castiel, who flicked his eyes to him in return when he saw the movement. His expression was blank, barring an odd yearning which Dean took to be his frustration at not being able to understand what Balthazar was saying. He seemed smaller than usual, frailer, and Dean felt a sharp pang of grief at the thought of losing him. “So he’s dying?” he asked in a low voice.

“Not so much,” Balthazar replied breezily. “You see, on exceptionally rare occasions – and I’m talking, roughly, twice in our entire history – an angel can store their grace somewhere else, protecting it from the worst of the damage. It’s injured, yes, and so is the angel’s body, but if they’re separated they don’t drag each other down. They can recover individually. In the meantime, their wings can grow back and the grace can be restored once the physical injuries are healed. _Et voilà! Il est guéri._ ”

The room fell silent for a moment while everybody considered the news. “He’s growing back his _wings_?” Sam asked, amazed.

“Oh yes. You know how lizards can grow back their tails? Like that. Only rather more painful.” Balthazar tilted his head as he stared down at Castiel, who tilted his head in return as he met his gaze. “Can’t say I’d like to do it, but it’s better than the alternative,” the angel said. There was, for a moment, genuine sympathy in his voice.

“How long will this take?” Dean asked tentatively, not really sure he wanted to know the answer.

Balthazar looked at his watch. “Ooh, I’d say...” He stared at the dial, as though he was counting off seconds, “about a month.”

“A _month_?”

“Or possibly two. Who knows? This hasn’t happened since before you jolly clever monkeys invented the wheel. Unfortunately Castiel is stuck in this charmingly tousled little vessel for the duration. Oh, and you might have noticed that his faculties aren’t quite what they were before. Most of his language skills are sitting in your belly right now, Mr Winchester. If you only knew how much knowledge is hunkered down inside you, you’d probably faint out of shame that you’re so stupid in comparison.”

“Great,” Dean breathed, sitting down with a thump.

“So Dean’s gotta walk around with half an angel inside him for all that time?” Bobby asked, as Sheriff Mills stood boggling at Balthazar beside him. “That can’t be any kind of good. Are there gonna be side-effects?”

Balthazar shrugged. “He’s not dead, so I think he’s avoided the worst side-effect of all. I don’t think it’s going to be easy, though.” He jabbed Dean on the shoulder. “That’s white-hot holiness inside you, sunshine. If you don’t get a little hot and bothered it’ll be a miracle.”

Dean already felt hot; he’d felt hot since he’d opened his eyes. The hummingbirds in his stomach were still buzzing, too, and he could feel how... _odd_ the presence inside him was, like he’d eaten too many carbohydrates and they were just sitting there, waiting to be digested, alien in his body. “So what do I do?” he asked, spreading out his hands. “Go on like nothing’s happened, or do I have to stay with Cas?”

Balthazar thought for a moment, distracted by the question. Dean hadn’t seen him caught off guard before. “Good point,” he muttered, folding his arms. “Can’t have you gallivanting about the country when you’ve got the head of the heavenly rebellion’s grace sitting inside you. Once Raphael knows Cas survived, he’ll be furious. It’s too risky to take either of you up to Heaven – he’ll sense you.” He clicked his fingers. “I know. I have just the hiding place. It’s grand, you’ll love it. Who’s coming?”

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” said Sam.

“I don’t want to go anywhere!” Dean said, jumping to his feet.

And then he, Sam and Castiel were gone.

Bobby and Sheriff Mills stared at the empty bed, which still had a Castiel-shaped hollow etched into the sheets. The room suddenly seemed very, very quiet.

“So,” said Sheriff Mills brightly, after a pause. “Angels.”

“Oh yeah,” returned Bobby, scratching his beard. “Angels. Like the world ain’t complicated enough.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Balthazar’s grand hiding place turned out to be just that: grand. It was a top-floor apartment on Central Park West overlooking Central Park, high enough in the air that the noise from Manhattan’s traffic was barely noticeable. It was huge. The walls were oak-paneled, the windows and balcony thronged with plants, the furniture antique-looking yet functional. The most modern room in the apartment was the enormous kitchen with the biggest fridge Dean had ever seen and a cappaccino machine that looked like some shiny, steampunk monster. There were four bedrooms, each containing a bed the size of an average fleabag motel room all by itself. The bathroom had a freaking _jacuzzi_ and one room had been turned into a gym; Sam stared at it as though all his Christmases had come at once. The lounge contained a TV screen so big Dean had a suspicion you’d have to push your seat way out into the air above Central Park to get the full effect of it; anything else was too close.

Best of all, though, it was safe.

“I actually invented wards to put around this place,” Balthazar told the brothers as they explored, a touch of pride in his voice. “There’s no angel in creation that can see through my safeguards. This is where I hid for the last few years, among other bolt-holes. I prefer a swimming pool, you see, so I’d come to this one just for the view.”

Dean stepped onto the balcony, feeling warm Spring sunbeams warm his face. The view was, indeed, terrific. The Park was vast, blossom-filled and bursting with new life, and he could see the unmistakable, iconic shapes of the Empire State and Chrysler buildings when he looked to the right, though they were almost lost amid a sea of other towers. He’d only been to New York a couple of times over the years; middle-America seemed to be his stomping ground, not cities teeming with life and diversity. Plus there was never anywhere to park in Manhattan, as they’d discovered many years before on a visit with their dad.

“I could get used to this,” he muttered.

“You’ll have to get used to it from inside, thanks,” Balthazar declared, pushing him back into the living room. “My wards cover the balcony but Raphael’s spies still have eyes. He has a few avian friends who’d report back to him in a heartbeat if they saw that glow coming from your stomach.” He closed the sliding door behind him and clapped his hands as Dean stared down at his torso, wondering why _he_ couldn’t see it glowing. “From now on, your brother’s the only one allowed to show his face to the outside world, _comprendez_?” continued Balthazar. “You’re staying in here. You make sure Castiel gets enough rest and you look after yourself. The grace currently filling up your tummy is more important than anything else, including your own life. Understand?”

Dean bristled, annoyed to be treated like nothing more than some kind of... of... holy _incubator_ , but Sam patted him on the arm and spoke before he could protest. “He’s not going anywhere, don’t worry,” he told Balthazar. “A rest will do all of us some good.”

Balthazar folded his arms, raising his eyebrows at Dean. “So I can trust you to stay put, little doggy?”

“Screw you,” Dean harrumphed.

“Countless thousands of years of language sitting inside you right now and that’s the best you can come up with. You’re a true scholar.” Balthazar grinned at him, huge and patronizing, before nodding in the direction of the bedroom where he’d placed Castiel. “Remember what I said: look after my brother. He’s helpless right now. If something happens to him, I’ll pull your tiny gorilla brains out through your noses.”

And he was gone.

Nobody spoke for a few beats. Then Dean asked Sam hopefully, “Did you see any beers in that Hulk-sized fridge?”

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

~ ~ ~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is rendered mute after being taught a painful lesson, but that enables Dean to learn a few lessons of his own while holding onto something important for him. Elsewhere, someone _really_ loves to count...

**Chapter Two**

 

Naturally, Dean was bored out of his mind after just one day. The quiet life wasn’t for him. Staying indoors, avoiding trouble, letting hunts go unhunted... it just wasn’t his style. At least when he’d been living with Lisa he’d been able to get out and work; he’d taken Ben to ballgames and driven places, visited people and gone for walks. Hell, he’d even worked on Lisa’s overgrown backyard and planted flowers and crap, not that he’d ever admit that to Sam in a million years.

But this... this was like a jail sentence. It didn’t matter how luxurious the apartment was, or how much there was to do there – and Balthazar had stocked it well, with everything from Wii games to books, magazines and shelves of DVDs – it just wasn’t enough to keep Dean occupied. He felt trapped.

Sam, being the annoyingly adaptable freak that he was, was perfectly happy. He worked out in the gym, browsed the library, played on his computer and channel-surfed. Dean couldn’t do any of it. He was restless and uncomfortable, although not all of it was because of his usual contrary nature. The grace stored inside him made him queasy; he could feel it spinning and bubbling, battering against his internal organs, wanting out. It wasn’t necessarily an unpleasant feeling but it certainly felt strange. He was hot all the time, sweating even when the apartment was cool, unnervingly close to shivering with chills but never quite developing them. It was like having a low-grade fever – enough to throw you off your game, but not enough to make you sick. He had to keep reminding himself that he could’ve died the moment Castiel vomited his grace up and into him. He was very lucky, really.

He didn’t feel that way.

But at least he was doing better than Castiel. The angel had the biggest bed in the apartment, the one draped in sheets so fine Dean reckoned their thread count was in the billions. Balthazar had left black silk pajamas out for him to wear – so _very_ Balthazar, of course – and Castiel had pulled them on uncertainly, as though he’d never felt anything quite like them. He probably hadn’t. But despite the comfort he was surrounded by, and despite the fact Sam and Dean kept checking in on him, offering him food and drink which he always refused – it seemed he had enough angel-ness left to survive without them – he didn’t seem very comfortable. Mostly he slept, which was always a bad sign for an angel who shouldn’t need to. And it wasn’t a peaceful sleep, either. He moaned and shuddered in his slumber, often waking with a cry as he battled those weird, agonizing waves of pain which swept over him every few hours. Dean assumed they were when he could feel his wings growing back, picturing them clawing their way out of his shoulderblades somehow, tearing through skin and wrenching through muscle. It had to hurt; even Balthazar had looked sympathetic when he’d mentioned it. Castiel bore the pain silently for the most part, but then again, he had no choice... it wasn’t as though he could talk.

The Winchesters tried to communicate with him, struggling to get across even simple concepts and failing miserably. Some days he was better than others – some days he responded to his name, or managed to write down the odd letter or number on the notepad he kept by his side. Mostly, however, he merely seemed irritated and confused by everything they said to him. There was something oddly reassuring about the fact he looked pissed so much of the time, that old Castiel impatience coming through as he struggled to understand conversations that looked as though they were gibberish to his ears. Sam spoke to him slowly and carefully, as though he was a child, and it made Dean chuckle whenever Castiel gave him a look that clearly said _I’m a million years older than you, please stop patronizing me._ For his part, Dean just chatted away as normal, occasionally drawing stuff on Castiel’s ever-present notepad to try to help him understand. Sometimes it worked, but at other times Castiel stared at whatever Dean had drawn as though he was trying to figure out the Da Vinci Code without reading the book first. Either way, it was frustrating for all of them.

It was freaky how Castiel could pick up on peoples’ thoughts and feelings, though, even if there seemed to be no purpose to most of his drawings. He sketched a dog when the old lady who lived in the apartment beside theirs headed out to walk the annoying, yappy thing (Sam excitedly reckoned the old dear was Lauren Bacall; Dean didn’t care as long as she kept her damn pooch quiet). He drew a bottle of scotch one evening when Dean was pondering how much he’d like a drink. Sam laughed like a crazy man when Castiel handed him a picture of a pair of scissors: when Dean asked what the hell that was about, Sam said he’d spent the morning wondering whether to get a haircut or not. Castiel just _knew_ stuff, seeing into their minds or figuring out their feelings, and it was kind of creepy whenever he’d pick up his pen because you never could guess what he was going to sketch. One day he even wrote the word ‘milk’, calmly and clearly, just as Sam wandered in from the kitchen and announced he needed to buy some half-and-half. For a guy who couldn’t speak or understand any language, he had his lucid, if ultimately useless, moments.

What became more and more clear as the days passed was that Dean and Castiel were connected. Dean would often find himself in the angel’s room at night, watching him sleep in the dim glow of the moon. He knew it was kind of creepy but he couldn’t help himself. The grace inside him would sometimes calm down a little whenever he was in Castiel’s presence, as though it was happy to be around him; maybe it was. Every time Dean touched Castiel, though, it would overwhelm him in sensations he couldn’t quite understand, sensations he could only assume were _angelic_. At first he’d hated it, but as time went on he started to enjoy it. Castiel seemed to like it too, often reaching out to brush Dean’s hand to get a jolt of whatever it was, although he always looked sad when he sat back again. Dean presumed he missed his grace. Castiel might be impossible to understand most of the time but he seemed completely aware of where he was and why he was there: he knew Dean was looking after his grace for him, and every now and then he’d flash a wan, uncomfortable smile at him, as though he was trying to both apologize for the inconvenience and say thank you all at once. Dean usually grinned back, then wandered away in mild embarrassment.

A week slowly rolled into two. Dean’s temperature lingered at levels that required him to take three showers a day and sleeping all the way through the night became difficult. On the plus side, Castiel’s spasms of pain grew further apart and he actually left his bed, wandering around the apartment in those ridiculous pajamas, staring at Balthazar’s earthly possessions in mild, usually baffled interest. Sam, despite his declarations of solidarity with Dean’s imprisonment, started sneaking out to explore Manhattan. Some nights he didn’t return, sending Dean a message at some ungodly hour to say he’d hooked up with someone. Dean took that as proof that Sam was just as bored as he was: he hadn’t so much as looked at a woman since he’d gotten his soul back. Anything to pass the time.

And time did pass.

Slowly.

 

~ ~ ~

 

They’d been stuck in Balthazar’s penthouse for just over three weeks when Sam found a hunt a day’s drive away. After much discussion, most of it grumpy on Dean’s part, it was decided that lives could be saved if Sam headed out to tackle the poltergeist – which meant that Dean and Castiel would be left on their own for at least three days.

Dean wasn’t happy about it. It was bad enough being cooped up indoors with someone to talk to: being cooped up indoors with someone who just looked at him like he was talking Swahili would be unbearable. Sam had been pretty much the only thing keeping Dean sane for the last few weeks, and without him... well, it wouldn’t be easy.

He said as much, too, even though Castiel was sitting at the table with them. It wasn’t like he knew he was being insulted, was it? “I can’t believe you’re leaving me here with mute-boy,” he muttered. “You _owe_ me for this.”

Sam jabbed a finger at the girl in the newspaper photo before them. “She broke her neck, Dean. The doctors say she might never recover. You know as well as I do that I have to go.”

“Can’t Bobby do it? Come on, he won’t mind if you ask him!”

“He’s doing his taxes.” Sam tried to say it with a straight face and almost managed it. “He’s not in a very good mood right now. I dare you to call him and ask him to hunt a poltergeist. Go on.”

“Excuses, excuses.” Dean ran a hand down his face and glanced across at Castiel, who was staring intently at the photo of the victim with his usual uncomprehending look on his face. Although perhaps ‘uncomprehending’ was a little simple; there was frustration there too, and possibly a little anger. Castiel really hated not knowing what was going on. He seemed to sense Dean staring at him and looked up, narrowing his eyes. He slid his gaze across to Sam. Then he sighed and picked up his pen, flipping over his notepad to find a clean page.

“Picasso’s at work,” Dean noted dully.

“It’s just a few days, Dean,” Sam told him with a shrug. “How bored can you get in three days?”

“Bored enough to watch reality TV,” Dean guessed, cracking a knuckle. “This blows, but you’re right. You don’t have any choice. You’d better go before that poltergeist spills any more blood.”

Castiel put the pen down and lifted up the pad. He’d drawn the number ‘80’ in sure, clean lines. He stared at Sam expectantly.

“Yeah, Cas,” Sam said, smiling a little. “You’re right.”

“What’s that? The age of that girl you were with last night?”

Sam scowled at him. “She was 24. And I was thinking that I’d have to take the I-80 tonight. He really does pick up on the most random things, doesn’t he?”

Dean sniffed, bored with the entire conversation now. “Yeah, he’s like the world’s dullest psychic.”

The brothers stood. Dean vanished into the kitchen to brew some coffee; Sam went to pack. Castiel stayed at the table, tracing the numbers on the page before him with his fingers, staring at them as though they held the secret to the universe. He was still there an hour later when Sam left, only by then he’d drawn a picture of the hex bags Sam had shoved into the bottom of his bag to get rid of the poltergeist.

He didn’t bother showing anyone. There wasn’t any point.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The way Castiel wandered around the place was starting to get on Dean’s nerves. He was like a ghost, flitting from room to room, picking things up and putting them down again without even really looking at them. It was obvious that Castiel was just as bored as Dean was, but he couldn’t bitch and moan about it, so he just... _wandered._ God, it was annoying.

“Dude, sit down and watch some TV,” he ordered, and when Castiel looked up at him inquisitively Dean pointed to the couch a few feet away. Castiel stared at Dean’s finger, gazed at the couch and then turned his back on both of them. He picked up the small peace lily sitting on a shelf and placed his hands around the pot as though he was warming it. The lily didn’t do much in return, so Dean assumed Castiel wasn’t communing with it or anything. Then again, who knew?

“Be like that, then,” Dean muttered, and stared blankly at the TV for a few minutes. Eventually he jumped up and raided one of the DVD shelves, returning with a copy of _The Empire Strikes Back_. Either Balthazar had great taste in movies or he’d sent a geek shopping on his behalf, but however the disc had gotten there, Dean didn’t care. He settled down to watch, turning the volume up louder than was probably prudent given the fact that maybe-Lauren-Bacall next door would complain about the noise, and relaxed into a kind of mind-numbed bliss of familiarity.

Ten minutes later Castiel settled himself down on the next couch, tucking his legs up underneath him primly. Dean didn’t acknowledge his presence but he kept sneaking glances at him, watching the film through his eyes and wondering what the hell he thought of it without understanding what was going on. Castiel viewed the screen with curiosity, looking mildly bored whenever there were dialogue scenes but leaning forward with interest as the AT-ATs pounded the rebel base. The space slug actually made him jump. He tilted his head as Han Solo was encased in carbonite and frowned when Luke’s hand went flying down the ventilation shaft. By the time _Empire_ finished he was on the edge of his seat, and as Dean raised the remote and switched off the disc he turned to face him with such a quizzical expression that Dean laughed.

“It’s science-fiction, Cas. It’s supposed to be weird,” he said, waving the DVD case at him.

Castiel shook his head faintly, signaling that he didn’t understand, and turned back to the now-black screen.

“Wanna watch _Jedi_? Naw, we’re doing this all wrong, I should’ve shown you the first _Star Wars_ so you could watch ’em in order. Although we’re supposed to call it _A New Hope_ these days, but I’ll be damned if I’m letting George Lucas rewrite my childhood.”

Castiel shuddered, then pulled the notebook out of the pocket on the breast of his pajamas. He scribbled something, frowning in what looked like revulsion, before tossing it over to Dean. It was a picture of Jar Jar Binks with a big, black line through him. Dean laughed so hard he almost burst into tears, and Castiel watched him curiously for a while before he eventually cracked an uncomprehending smile.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Castiel woke up screaming that night.

Dean ran into his room and flicked on the light to find him writhing around the bed, fending off dream attackers in a wild, maniacal fury. The angel’s eyes snapped open before Dean could reach him and he threw himself sideways until he hit the floor, lying face-down on the plush red carpet and raking his fingers through the wool as he moaned and trembled.

Dean understood instantly, remembering back to that damned garage and the way Castiel had dug lines through solid concrete with his fingers because the pain had been so bad. He was reliving it – the blood and the agony and the broken bones and the piles of black feathers that still haunted Dean’s dreams even though he hadn’t experienced it himself. He could sympathize. From the way the grace in his stomach burned and rolled, somehow reacting to Castiel’s emotions even without Dean touching him, it wasn’t hard.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said in the most soothing voice he could muster, kneeling beside the angel and placing a hand on his shoulder. Castiel jerked at the contact and Dean gulped in a breath of pure, white-hot pain. It was gone in a heartbeat; just a residual memory that had somehow found a way to travel between them, but it was enough to bring tears to Dean’s eyes. “It’s okay, Cas,” he said again, a little shaken. “You’re safe now. It’s over.”

Castiel clenched his fists, gathering himself. He sat up and leaned back on the side of the bed, panting hard. He wouldn’t look at Dean until Dean took his hand, using that weird connection between them to try to make him feel better. It seemed to work: Dean broke into a sweat, his heart racing, as Castiel’s fingers closed around his. They sat that way for a long time – long enough for Dean to start feeling light-headed, and for his hand to become damp in Castiel’s grip – before Castiel finally pulled away. He took a deep, shaky breath and reached up on the nightstand for the notebook. Dean waited patiently while he drew something.

It was the silver angel-sword that Raphael had used on his wings. Dean looked at it and nodded sadly. “Yeah, I kind of guessed that’s what you were dreaming about, Cas. You didn’t have to draw it.”

Castiel looked at the picture, pale-faced. Then he scribbled over it, so hard he went through the paper and ripped it into shreds, angry and violent and raw. He threw the notepad across the room and jumped to his feet, stalking into the bathroom and slamming the door.

Dean waited an hour, but he didn’t come out and there was no answer when he knocked. In the end, at a loss, he went back to bed.

He couldn’t sleep. The hummingbirds in his stomach were in full flight, as though they knew their real master was suffering.

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

Sam called the next afternoon to say the poltergeist had been banished and he’d be setting off for New York in the next few hours, once he’d caught up on his sleep. He sounded tired but jubilant. Dean was jealous, wishing with all his heart that he’d been there – he was sick of the same four walls, sick of the same view from windows he couldn’t stand too close to in case he was seen, sick of the same routine every day, sick of being trapped. If he hadn’t already been to Hell he would’ve sworn this was Hell incarnate.

It was getting harder and harder to sleep. Dean was _hot_. Whenever he looked in a mirror his face was flushed and sweat beaded on his forehead; he could feel his heart racing inside him and sometimes felt dizzy. Whatever was going on with Castiel’s grace was draining him a little every day, affecting him more and more. The only good news was that Castiel seemed to be getting better at a rate of knots, only getting those bizarre surges of pain a couple of times a day now. Dean found himself hoping that those wings were growing like weeds, fully-feathered and raring to fly, because he really couldn’t wait that much longer to get this damned invader out of him.

He never thought he’d ever say this, either, but he missed talking with Castiel as well. The fact he was so quiet just wasn’t right. Castiel was hardly verbose at the best of times, but like this... neutered, helpless? He was almost creepy. Dean was fed up of trying to explain things to him and getting that frustrated, uncomprehending look in return.

Oh, what the hell. He was fed up of _everything_.

The apartment was bathed in the golden burn of sunset when Dean finally heard noises coming from Castiel’s bedroom – he’d been asleep all day, or at least pretending to be; Dean wasn’t sure. The television was on in there now though, and the door was open. Dean knocked hesitantly on the frame and stepped inside before there was an answer. It wasn’t as if Castiel could say “Come in” anyway.

The angel was sitting on the end of the bed, toes scrunched in the thick red pile of the carpet, watching something Dean couldn’t see on the TV because it didn’t face the door. Castiel looked up and nodded in greeting before turning back to the screen. His face screwed up and he looked as though he was concentrating with every ounce of his being, so hard, in fact, it was almost funny. What the hell was he watching to pull that kind of concentration from him?

“One, two, three, four... _Onetwothreefour... Onetwothreefour.._. One, two, three, four... It’s the song of the Count!”

Dean stopped dead. “You have got to be kidding me,” he blurted, joining Castiel on the end of the bed. _Sesame Street_ ’s Count was dancing around his castle, singing about counting spiders and cobwebs, bats flapping at his ears. Castiel was staring at him so hard it looked as though it physically hurt. Dean watched in amazement, feeling every muscle in Castiel’s body tensing beside him as he studied the puppet.

“One, two, three, four... It’s the _sooooooong_ of the Count!”

The sketch finished, segueing into a commercial with barely a pause. Castiel blinked and sat back, breathing out hard, as though he’d been holding his breath. He turned to look at Dean; opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

“Vun, two, free, four,” he said in a shoddy Transylvanian accent. “Vun, two, free, four.”

Dean bit his lip, trying desperately not to laugh.

“Vun, two, free, four,” repeated Castiel, searching Dean’s face to see if he was making sense to him. He saw the amusement in his eyes and stopped, suddenly uncertain, flicking his eyes to the TV and back again. “Uh... onetwofreefour...”

“Oh my god,” said Dean, putting a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. “Cas, that’s, uh... pretty special, dude.”

Castiel seemed to realize he was being made fun of. He scowled and rose to his feet in a fit of helpless, frustrated anger, yanking the plug for the television out of the wall and throwing it on the floor. He strode out of the room as Dean finally let out a harsh, totally involuntary laugh. He couldn’t help it: an angel watching _Sesame Street_ and singing along to the songs? Somehow this was even funnier than Castiel watching _porn._

Castiel apparently didn’t find it funny. When Dean eventually joined him in the kitchen, his face was like thunder and he was drawing furiously on the notepad. Dean put his laptop down beside him and pulled up a chair, wincing as it scraped on the gaudy marble floor.

“Sorry, man, you kind of took me by surprise back there,” he offered. “I know you’re just trying to communicate but... jeez, Cas, the Count? Really?”

Castiel slammed his pen on the table and lifted the notepad. He’d drawn a castle that looked vaguely familiar. He pointed at it anxiously as Dean stared. “Okay, so that’s where the Count lives. I get you. Why so important?”

Castiel frowned and pointed at it again. Dean lifted his eyebrows and shook his head in the universal sign for _so what?_ Growling in annoyance, Castiel beckoned for him to follow him out to the living room. He stopped by the window, keeping as much of his body hidden from view as possible, and pointed. Dean joined him and stared down at Central Park, utterly confused, until he saw what Castiel wanted him to see. “There’s a castle down there, too,” he observed, realizing that the shape drawn on the notepad was the same as the outline of the building in the middle of the park. “Huh.”

Castiel stared at it as well. Then he glanced at Dean and said, “Vun, two, free, four.”

It didn’t sound any less ridiculous than the first few times he’d said it, but this time Dean kept his face straight as he didn’t want to offend him. Thinking hard, he went back to the kitchen and opened his laptop. “Time for some Google-fu,” he told Castiel, who followed him with a hopeful look on his face. “Okay, so... let’s try ‘The Count’ and ‘Central Park’.”

Five minutes later, Dean had learned that the castle used as the Count’s home on _Sesame Street_ was based on Central Park’s Belvedere Castle. Castiel had somehow connected the two: real life and fantasy rolled into one. Perhaps that was why he’d been so interested in the show, thinking that it was being broadcast from just outside their building? Dean had no idea what was going through Castiel’s bizarro brain but he had to admit to being impressed with his observational skills. “I guess you aced your Architecture 101 class,” he told him fondly, as Castiel stared at the image of the castle on his computer screen. “Hey, wanna watch some more Count? YouTube is our friend...”

He found a random clip of the puppet singing something dumb about bats and played it. Castiel tensed, studying it with that weird intensity, mouthing numbers along with the music. On a whim, Dean played it again. This time Castiel sang along, hesitant and awkward, but it didn’t matter. He was speaking. After so long in silence, he’d found a way to communicate, as limited as it was. Whether he knew he was singing numbers or a weather forecast or the recipe for Kentucky Fried Chicken didn’t seem to matter: the fact he was speaking at all made Dean the happiest man on Central Park West. He clapped him on the back and Castiel actually grinned, sitting straight in his chair as though he was proud of himself.

“I say we toast your new singing skills,” Dean declared, jumping to his feet.

“Vun... _ha ha ha_ ,” came his reply. As Dean left the kitchen to raid the liquor cabinet in the study, Castiel started to draw a smiley-faced bat on his notepad.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Four hours, two bottles of scotch, one bottle of tequila, half a bottle of brandy and nineteen beers later, Castiel was well and truly drunk. Dean wasn’t exactly sober himself, either, although he’d barely swallowed a quarter of what Castiel had managed. Even an angel got hammered in the end, though, particularly one who wasn’t quite full of himself these days (in a very literal sense).

They’d had fun tonight. Dean had shoved Castiel on the couch beside him and, after careful consideration, selected _300_ to watch – not because he was its biggest fan, but because he figured it was all about the visuals and Castiel could watch it without having to follow the plot. He’d been right: Castiel had been fascinated by the slow-motion action, apparently annoyed or offended by some of the effects (at least, Dean assumed so, unless he didn’t like the actors themselves; it was hard to tell) and genuinely awed by the fighting. Mainly, however, he’d giggled. It was weird hearing him laugh so much. It started slowly, developing after the second bottle of whiskey and increasing until Dean found himself having giggle-fits, too. The drunker Castiel became, the happier he seemed. It was refreshing, not to mention contagious. Every now and then Castiel would announce, “Vun, _ha ha ha!_ ” and Dean would collapse in hysterics, particularly when Castiel got the hiccups.

It was strange how little language they needed to communicate after all. Alcohol, an educational children’s show and even more alcohol seemed to break down those barriers quite nicely. Dean couldn’t help but wish he’d found out sooner.

He was trying to put Castiel to bed now, but the angel was too busy drawing something completely unrecognizable on his battered notepad: the drunker he became, the more surreal his sketches were. He kept shoving the pad in Dean’s face, noting his blank expression as he tried to figure out what the latest scrawl was, then drawing again with his tongue poking out of one corner of his mouth like a kid. Dean was getting tired and knew they’d both have killer hangovers tomorrow morning, so the fun and games had to stop now. He was a veteran when it came to drinking, after all. Castiel had been hammered, to Dean’s knowledge, precisely once before. At least tonight proved he wasn’t always a miserable drunk.

“Okay, sunshine, into bed with you,” he declared, yanking back the too-fancy sheets and whipping the notepad from Castiel’s grip. He patted him on the shoulder, feeling that familiar buzz in his gut as the hummingbirds took flight. “Time for some shut-eye now, Cas.”

Castiel hissed through his teeth and glared at him with melodramatic pissiness, but seemed to catch the drift. He stood, wobbling so dramatically that Dean had to hold his arm, and staggered to the side of the bed before collapsing onto the mattress so hard that he bounced in the air. He giggled and peered up at Dean blearily as Dean lifted first one of his dangling legs, and then the other, onto the bed as well.

“I love to count,” Castiel said happily, still with that crazy mock-Transylvanian lilt.

“Try counting sheep.” Dean lifted the sheets up and over him. Castiel refused to lie down so Dean had to shove him pretty hard, knocking him back onto the pillow and eliciting another round of guffaws. Dean laughed too. He was that drunk. Everything was funny right now.

“Get some sleep,” he ordered, once he could control himself again. “Man, you’re gonna feel like crap tomorrow. What am I saying? We’re _both_ gonna feel like crap tomorrow. Alcohol is evil, dude. Muchas, muchas evil.”

Castiel suddenly tensed. He squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered, throwing his head back on the pillow and arching his neck in agony. Hands fisted in the sheets and he let out a frightening, otherworldly wail that set every hair on Dean’s body on end. Because he was so drunk it took him a few seconds to figure out what was wrong: Castiel was having one of his freaky surges of pain. Dean should be used to them by now, but every time one happened it still took him by surprise – and this time shocked him most of all. Usually Castiel bore them silently, fighting to stay quiet and stoic to the best of his willpower, but with his defenses lowered by all the alcohol coursing through his system, that didn’t happen now. His eyes rolled and his breaths came in terrifying, uneven stutters; he jerked on the mattress and kicked out reflexively, making the rest of his body bounce up and down with the movement. It looked excruciating, and Dean had a sudden flashback to those twisted heaps of bone and feathers and felt every atom in his body ache in sympathy.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay,” he told him, climbing onto the bed and holding him flat, worried he was going to fall to the floor. The grace in his stomach swirled, leaving him dizzy and breathless, but the pain didn’t transfer this time. He merely felt a wave of heat hit him that made him gasp and just like that, in the space of a few seconds, he was literally dripping in sweat. He ignored it, hazily focusing on Castiel’s agonized face. “Cas? Hey, come on, come back to me. Cas?”

It ended as suddenly as it began. Castiel gasped and his eyes snapped wide open, his body going rigid. Then he relaxed and lay panting, apparently too dazed to even notice Dean leaning over him. By the time he did, Dean could feel sweat soaking through his clothing and droplets forming on his nose as he stared down at his friend.

“You’re okay, Cas, you’re fine,” he told him, as Castiel’s red-rimmed eyes finally focused on his face. “It’s over, you’re–”

He wasn’t sure later if Castiel had risen up off the pillow or if Dean had moved downwards; however it had happened, they were kissing. Suddenly, with no warning, no preamble, Castiel was kissing Dean as though doing so would make all his pain go away and Dean was kissing him back just as hard. He felt wild and almost angry, completely unnatural heat searing through him and something fluttering down low in his torso, something trapped and holy, something that wanted to _go home_ but couldn’t. He moaned into Castiel’s mouth, tasting four different kinds of alcohol and sucking on his tongue without thinking. Castiel’s hands slapped into place on Dean’s cheeks and held him still with superhuman strength, keeping him pinned, as though Dean would even have thought of moving away.

They kissed for ages, years, until Dean thought he was going to shrivel up and die from the heat building inside him and on his lips, until Castiel released him and gulped in several huge, desperate breaths as though he’d been suffocating. His eyes were impossibly huge, searching Dean’s face in what looked like terror, but Dean was drunk and aroused, not to mention burning up from the inside-out, and he didn’t register that perhaps they shouldn’t be doing this. He only understood that this felt good, unbelievably good, and before he knew it they were kissing again, Castiel succumbing to his touch with a hesitation that only lasted for a heartbeat.

It was the longest kiss Dean had ever known – and the most personal, too, with consequences he couldn’t bring himself to think about even as his hands began to explore the hard, unfamiliar form below his. Castiel felt human; his power and strength softened into cool surrender beneath Dean’s fingertips, skin twitching with every touch and his breath catching as though he was too sensitive to bear such intimate explorations. He jerked as Dean rubbed a nipple with his thumb; hissed through his teeth when Dean ran hands up his sides; released a gentle, shaking sigh as Dean sucked his fingers, one by one, tasting ink and the bitter yet pleasant tang of soap. Afterwards, as Castiel pulled his hands away from Dean’s mouth and stared at them in faint amazement, Dean kissed him again, twisting his hands in his hair with more possessiveness than he knew what to do with.

When he finally leaned back, he was uncomfortably hard in his pants and could feel Castiel’s cock insistent against his thigh, cushioned by denim and a layer of dampening silk. Fingers fumbling drunkenly, Dean unbuttoned his jeans as Castiel ran his fingers down his cheek, stopping to caress Dean’s lips with the inside of his thumb as though he’d never felt anything quite as fascinating in his entire existence. Then he frowned and pulled at Dean’s t-shirt in an unspoken command that said _get naked now, or else._ Dean obliged, leaning back and removing it in one swift motion, tossing the t-shirt across the room without a second glance. Castiel’s attempt to get naked wasn’t quite as successful. He sat upright and made the mistake of trying to pull his stupid, Hugh Hefner-style silk pajama shirt over his head instead of undoing the buttons at the front. He yelped in annoyance as it tangled up around his neck, pinning his arms and covering his face as he struggled with it. Just a few minutes ago Dean would’ve laughed at the sight – it was pathetically hilarious – but now he simply growled and tugged the shirt angrily off Castiel’s head, before pulling so hard at the arms that Castiel almost fell off the mattress. Dean didn’t pause once he was shirtless, attacking Castiel’s pajama bottoms next and kicking off his own, completely sweat-sodden jeans almost as an afterthought.

And then that was it: they were both naked and panting, staring at each other’s erections with drunken, carnal, utterly unexpected lust and a whole lot of shock.

There was a heavy, disbelieving pause.

It didn’t last.

Dean swooped in to kiss him again. Their bodies met and slipped together, Dean’s flesh wet and fiery against Castiel’s cool, dry skin. Legs tangled, hands delved and caressed, fingers dug into flesh, groins touched. They wrestled together for a short while, half-heartedly fighting for dominance, licking exposed skin and drawing out groans with bites and nips, before their joint experience became about nothing more than _friction_. Dean found himself rutting against Castiel’s hip as though it was the most natural thing in the world to do, sliding sideways after a few minutes to rub his cock along Castiel’s hard, unfamiliar length, delighting in the sensation. Castiel responded with a gasp. He grabbed a handful of Dean’s ass, squeezing his flesh possessively until he rolled him over, lying on top of him, pumping against Dean’s groin with desperate, rhythmic precision, completely out of control.

Dean couldn’t even think. He was too drunk, too hot, too turned on. He opened his legs, felt Castiel settle between them as though he belonged there, then closed them again to keep him safe. He was shaking himself now – just as much from the unbearable heat inside him than anything else – and when Castiel’s hand circled his cock and tugged it experimentally he jerked helplessly into his dry fist, moaning and scraping at Castiel’s back with his fingernails.

It felt so good that he was incapable of holding back his orgasm, too full of booze to even regret its embarrassing speed. The furnace inside him turned to full-on _lava_ and he cried out, suddenly terrified that Castiel’s grace was going to burn its way through his body and into the open air, but it didn’t. Pleasure swept over him as he came in magnificent, hungry thrusts against Castiel’s thigh, inelegant and frantic, messy as all hell and not giving a damn. It was glorious; a rush of ecstasy that left him shaking and breathless, woozy and blown away. He found himself staring into Castiel’s eyes in complete wonderment as the angel’s hand stroked him through his orgasm and down again, somehow knowing exactly how to hold him, where to squeeze, how to tease.

 _He can read my mind,_ Dean thought, dazed. _He’d probably sketch this on his pad if he could._

Castiel waited until Dean’s heartbeat had slowed a little before releasing him. He dipped his head to bite at his lower lip, a deep, dangerous, sexy growl rumbling in his throat that made Dean’s cock twitch despite its recent exertions. Castiel moved lower to suck on Dean’s neck, rubbing his dick against him, up and down, _up and down_ , clearly exulting in the feeling. Then, taking Dean by surprise, he rolled until he was beneath him again, hips heaving upwards even as Dean gasped as his half-hard cock was squeezed between their bodies.

“D-Dean,” Castiel groaned, squeezing him painfully hard with his legs; Dean was too far gone to even notice he’d said his name for the first time in almost a month. “Oh... Dean... _Oh..._ ”

Something bright and beautiful flared somewhere deep inside of Dean as Castiel’s body convulsed beneath his own; something lonely and longing, lost and misplaced, that had found some kind of brief respite in a joining of bodies and simple human ecstasy. He felt bursts of wet heat hit his stomach, saw Castiel throw his head back beneath him, felt fingers digging painfully hard into his back.

And then it was all too much and Dean was gone, gone, gone.

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

[The Song Of The Count, for reference purposes!](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3e7yYBDHOgg&feature=fvwrel)

 

 

~ ~ ~

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is rendered mute after being taught a painful lesson, but that enables Dean to learn a few lessons of his own while holding onto something important for him. Elsewhere, someone _really_ loves to count...

**Chapter Three**

 

 

~ ~ ~

Dean awoke the next morning with two things: a hangover that felt as though someone had dropped Mount Rushmore on his head, and the equally-as-monumental feeling that something very, very bad had happened.

He lay as still as he possibly could for a long time, trying valiantly to stop the contents of his stomach from climbing up his windpipe to meet fresh air. He was lying on his side, blinking in the sunlight pouring through the window. He wasn’t in his own room, which was odd. He was completely naked on top of the sheets, which was also odd. He couldn’t quite reconcile these two important changes in his life, or the fact that he felt as though he had white-hot lava in his stomach. He knew a hangover when he felt one, but this felt more serious. Was he sick? Did he have a fever? He tried to remember if he had any cuts or injuries that might’ve become infected but his brain was still sleepily blank.

Someone was snoring behind him.

Dean frowned, his mind still working at half-speed, and carefully rolled over. Castiel was out like a light at his side, lying on his back with his arm thrown up over his pillow, cradling his tousled head in his elbow. His eyes were moving under his lids and he looked peaceful. He was also stark naked. Dean stared at his face, uncomprehending, before glancing down and seeing stuff he’d never expected to see in broad daylight. Or even at night, for that matter, although as Dean thought about it he realized he’d done more than _see_ last night. There’d been _feeling_. And stroking. Not to mention prodding.

Oh God. The _prodding._

It felt like being struck by lightning. He remembered it all, every drunken, regrettable second of it – the sound of bodies slapping together and tongues slurping against lips and the hot, wet impact of semen on skin. All of it. Exquisitely.

Holy shit, what had he done? And with _Castiel!_

Dean moved backwards, sliding out of the bed and backing away from it with exaggerated care, like a man stuck in slow-motion. He froze as Castiel reacted to the change in pressure on the mattress, stretching out to fill some of the space Dean had just vacated and rolling onto his stomach. Dean stared in incredulity at the fine red scratches on Castiel’s buttocks and looked down at his fingernails as though they’d betrayed him. Had he really done that? Or was this some kind of drunken hallucination?

What the fuck kind of liquor did Balthazar keep in this place anyway?

Dean ran. He sprinted across the apartment and threw himself into his bedroom, going to slam the door before catching it at the last second to save it making any angel-wakening noise. He stood panting, staring at nothing, feeling his heart thudding inside him. The room began to tilt a little and he slapped a hand on the wall to keep himself upright. It slipped. He stared at the wet palm-print on the wood and realized he was sweating unnaturally hard, that damned grace keeping him soaked through like it wanted him to drown in his own juices. He looked down at himself, trying to remember where other juices had hit his skin the previous night, before the churning in his whiskey-filled gut finally overwhelmed him.

He barely made it into the bathroom in time, turning the toilet bowl 90-proof as he fell to his knees before it. Several minutes of retching later, he took a shower: a long, cold, sterilizing wash that made him feel a damn sight better physically but no cleaner mentally. He’d had sex with Castiel, for fuck’s sake. A full-on angel... his friend... another _species_... not to mention one who was wearing the body of an innocent married guy. A man. He’d had sex with a _man_ , something so alien to his experience it freaked him out even more than the fact Castiel was an angel.

Dean wasn’t homophobic. He knew the world was wide and diverse and not everybody liked the same thing. He accepted other people’s sexual preferences in the same way he accepted that the sky was blue and the birds sang in the trees: it was fact, and getting uptight about it was pointless, wasteful and unnecessary. He’d even wondered as a teenager if he could ever have sex with a guy, but then he’d discovered the joys of girls and knew guys weren’t his bag. Sure, he’d get the occasional man-crush, but he’d never really thought beyond the _I’d like to be that dude_ aspect of them and into the _I’d like to have sex with that dude_ side of things. It just wasn’t part of his make-up; it never had been.

Until last night.

He stepped out of the shower, picked up a towel and stared into the mirror. There were little red marks here and there on his skin where Castiel had scratched him. A love-bite on his neck (was Cas a teenager or something? How dumb was that?). Bruises were beginning to show on Dean’s hips where fingers had dug into his flesh. He drew in a deep breath and held it, thinking back. It had been good sex. No way could he deny that, no matter how much he wanted to. There hadn’t been any penetration – Dean couldn’t even imagine that, though he wondered if he would’ve been drunk enough to do it if Castiel had wanted to – but it had been hot and wild and intimate beyond belief. He released the air from his lungs and considered the fact that they’d both been into it, without question; Castiel so eager and desperate beneath him as he’d moaned out Dean’s name and held him tight.

But he’d been drunk. So had Dean. And Dean was carrying around Castiel’s grace, a deeply personal part of the angel that wanted to go home again, back to its original host. Dean considered the very real possibility that last night had merely been bad luck: that a combination of alcohol and the alien yearning inside of him to join with Castiel had resulted in them rolling around on the bed together. They were merely responding to forces beyond their control. Hell, they’d even watched _300_ just beforehand; he could barely even imagine a more homoerotic film to get them in the mood, even if it had been subconsciously. Stupid Spartans. Stupid grace. Stupid... everything.

“It wasn’t me,” Dean mouthed into the mirror. “It was his grace. It was the booze. It wasn’t me.”

His reflection stared back. It had stubble-burn.

“Don’t look at me like that,” said Dean. “It wasn’t my fault.”

The Dean in the mirror didn’t look convinced at all, so Dean had to turn his back on him.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Castiel was in the kitchen when Dean finally emerged newly scrubbed, freshly dressed and steel-stomached. He was going to get through this. He was trapped in this apartment with Castiel and he wasn’t going to let this get awkward; it simply couldn’t. They had to live together. There’d be no more sex but there was no reason why they couldn’t stay friends, as long as neither of them mentioned last night ever again as long as they both lived. It could be easy, if only they didn’t fight it. Dean wasn’t going to fight it, so that just left Castiel – who couldn’t even talk right now. How hard could it be?

The angel was trying to work the coffee machine as Dean entered the kitchen, his expression intense as he attempted to figure out the instructions without being able to read any of the symbols properly. He glanced up and met Dean’s eyes as soon as he became aware of his presence, smiling faintly, looking hungover and rumpled but fairly ordinary.

Apart from the fact that he was butt-naked, anyway.

“Oh crap,” said Dean, looking him up and down, before walking straight back out of the kitchen again.

To his annoyance, but not his surprise, Castiel followed him. Dean came to a stop in the middle of the living room, tilting his head back to stare at the heavens in a silent plea for help. Help was not forthcoming, so eventually he turned to face his companion and cleared his throat. “So, about last night,” he began, although he knew damn well Castiel couldn’t understand a word.

Maybe Castiel didn’t need to. As he stared at Dean, his expression changed from one of puzzlement to one of wide-eyed shock. Dean watched the transformation happen before him – Castiel remembering the previous night after a totally understandable, hangover-fuelled bout of amnesia. He studied him with horrified fascination as Castiel’s face fell so low it practically slid off his face and rolled around on the floor.

“Um,” said the angel, and it was like his entire body crumpled. He took a step backwards and his eyes went dark. He looked devastated. He tore his gaze away from Dean, threw a disdainful glance down at his naked body and disappeared into his bedroom without another sound, closing the door carefully behind him.

Dean stood there and found himself wondering, somewhat perversely, if Castiel found the idea of sleeping with a human even more shocking than Dean’s surprise at sleeping with a man.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The day dragged on. Dean couldn’t concentrate on anything, couldn’t settle, couldn’t keep his mind busy enough to stop replaying last night’s events in his head. He took two more showers to try to cool the heat inside him, utterly fed up of having to change into clean clothes every few hours as they became sweaty and sticky. He wondered when Castiel would be able to take his grace and go; it had to be soon, surely, given that he hardly seemed to be in pain any more? His wings must have grown back by now. It had been weeks. Maybe by tomorrow all this would be over with and they could go back to their old lives and pretend they’d never kissed each other so possessively that Dean could still taste Castiel on his tongue despite the fact he’d cleaned his teeth five times already.

Maybe.

By four o’clock Dean was climbing the walls. He wished he could talk with Castiel, explain how they could just put this behind them and move on, chalking it up to nothing more than a drunken fling and weird metaphysical longings. But he couldn’t, of course; Castiel could only talk when he mimicked puppets, or when he was in the throes of passion and managed to remember Dean’s name. It was hilarious, in a way, but it made the situation almost impossible for Dean to bear.

In the end he knocked on Castiel’s door. When there was no reply, he pushed it open.

Castiel was sitting on the edge of his bare mattress, hands curled in his lap, wearing those dumb pajamas again. The sheets and pillows were in a messy pile under the window, as though Castiel had pulled them off the bed and thrown them there in disgust. He looked up at Dean and narrowed his eyes at him, radiating a belligerence that needed no words.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean told him. “This is a mess. I really wish you could understand me so we could clear this up.”

Castiel stood. He looked back at the bed, paused for a moment, then swept past Dean and out of the room. Dean watched as he stalked across the apartment to the one remaining spare bedroom and slammed the door behind him – clearly, he’d just claimed it. This room held bad memories for him now. He wanted nothing more to do with it. What they’d done was wrong, and Castiel was letting Dean know that in his own, mute way.

“Dammit,” Dean hissed, resting his head on the cool wooden doorframe. He stood silently for a while, cursing sex and whiskey and everything else he could think of, before he noticed that Castiel’s tattered notepad was lying on the mattress. Curious, he wandered over and picked it up, staring at the latest drawing in confusion.

It was a picture of him. It was beautifully drawn – Castiel was a talented artist – and he’d captured Dean’s essence with ease, penciling in the twinkle in his eyes and a sardonic grin on his lips that was pure, unfiltered _him_. But he’d colored in Dean’s torso with deep, violent, black scribbles; swirls and clouds of angry shading that reminded Dean of demon smoke. For a moment he thought Castiel was drawing him possessed and he caught his breath in shock, but it wasn’t quite right. The darkness was centered over Dean’s heart. It was inside him, but it wasn’t a demon. Castiel was trying to draw Dean’s emotions; his unease, his fear.

No. Not that.

With a flash of insight that took his breath away, Dean suddenly understood. Castiel had drawn Dean’s _rejection_. He thought back to his friend’s expression that morning: the look of horror on his face hadn’t stemmed from him remembering the night before – it had come from him looking inside Dean and realizing _how Dean felt about it._

Holy shit. Castiel hadn’t been freaked out that they’d had sex at all! That’s why he’d been naked, because he’d been comfortable around Dean, feeling no need to hide himself after their intimacy. But Castiel was psychic. He could read Dean even if he couldn’t read something as simple as the instructions on a coffee machine, and every ounce of revulsion and regret in Dean’s heart must have hit him like a slap to the face. Dean might as well have stood there and told Castiel to fuck off. The angel had registered Dean’s feelings and taken them personally.

Dean dropped the notebook. No wonder Castiel was pissed at him: there was nothing quite as horrendous as sleeping with someone and then finding out exactly how much they regretted it afterwards with no sugar-coating on top. Castiel wasn’t a kid – he was tough and powerful, older than Dean by centuries, but this still had to hurt. Emotions were new to him. Hell, as far as Dean knew, last night had been Castiel’s first sexual experience. He couldn’t even imagine how crappy the poor guy had to feel right now.

Dean felt absolutely awful. The worst part was that he couldn’t do anything about it – he couldn’t talk to him. He couldn’t tell Castiel that he was freaked out about the way his heterosexuality had fallen by the wayside, that all of this wasn’t so much about Castiel as it was about Dean doing something alien to his experience, something that had shaken him to the core. He still liked Castiel, of course he did: he was stunned that they’d had sex, not that Castiel even existed. But all Castiel had felt was his regret. He must think Dean hated him.

Dean thought about this for a long, long time. And then he said “Screw this,” pulled on his long-neglected coat and headed out of the building.

 

~ ~ ~

 

It was weird walking after so long being confined inside the four walls of the apartment. Dean ventured into Central Park and looked up at the trees rather than down at them, losing himself under their branches, bright with new growth. He strolled down Fifth Avenue, wandered around Times Square, pondered a trip to the top of the Empire State Building before deciding it was too crowded and he wasn’t prepared to be quite that touristy. Eventually, as the evening crawled in and the city glowed red, gold and then cool blue with the changing sky, Dean found himself in a tacky, mock-Irish bar in some forgotten backstreet, sitting in a dark, beer-drenched booth and slowly obliterating his sobriety as though it offended him.

He tried not to think about Castiel, but that was like trying not to breathe. Of _course_ he thought about Castiel. He thought about the way he’d moaned when he’d reached his orgasm, jerking and trembling against Dean’s body as his legs had tightened so hard around him; he thought about the way he’d tasted, all salt and sweat and power, a heady mixture that still made Dean feel light-headed almost 24 hours on. He thought about how Castiel had kissed him and, more importantly perhaps, how he’d kissed Castiel back – so needy, so hungry, like no other kiss Dean had ever shared, so erotic it made him half-hard just thinking about it. He thought about how unexpectedly attractive Castiel had looked naked, then scowled to himself and slugged back an entire glass of whiskey as he remembered it wasn’t even his body. Had Jimmy Novak known what was happening while they were writhing around together? Was Jimmy even still in there? Dean hoped like hell that he wasn’t, but he couldn’t imagine where Jimmy was if he wasn’t still sharing that body with Castiel. Dammit, the way angels worked made Dean’s head hurt just as much as the booze.

Mostly, though, Dean thought about how devastated Castiel had looked when he’d realized Dean regretted their liaison. He wondered how he could ever have mistaken the pain in his eyes for anything else. He was an idiot, pure and simple.

And the more he drank as the night rolled on, the more Dean started to realize that it didn’t really matter that Castiel was a guy. Issues with Castiel’s vessel aside, Dean did care about him on more than one level: both as a friend and as something more. He didn’t regret the fact they’d had sex. He couldn’t blame it on the grace inside him, not entirely. He’d wanted to do it. Castiel had wanted him back. It wasn’t perfect and there were problems to overcome, but Dean couldn’t deny his attraction to the angel no matter how much he wanted to... And he really, really wanted to. Life was complicated enough. This was all he needed, another spanner to throw in the works, but he’d cope.

He just hoped Castiel didn’t hate him now. He wouldn’t blame him if he did, and the lack of communication between them could be the final nail in the coffin, but perhaps... just perhaps... they could get over this. He hoped so, and the thought set those infernal hummingbirds skittering around his insides again, swooping and bumping around in there in a way that made him nauseous. Although maybe that was all the booze. Dean was going for two-for-two with his nights of hard drinking here, and his body wasn’t too impressed. And that was without that incessant, irritating sweating.

The annoying buzz of Dean’s cellphone penetrated his thoughts sometime around 11pm. He peered at the screen and sighed. It was Sam. Of course it was – it wasn’t as though Castiel could call him. “Hey,” he said, trying to sound significantly less drunk than he really was. “You back?”

“Where the _hell_ are you, Dean?” Sam snapped back, making him wince. “It isn’t safe for you to be outside!”

“Cool your jets, Sammy. I’m just gettin’ some air. I’ll be back before the clock strikes midnight and everybody turns into pumpkins and mice.”

“Are you insane? You’ve got Cas’s grace inside you! You’re on the angel hitlist!”

“I needed a break,” Dean said, dropping his voice down low. “I was goin’ crazy.”

“Uh, yeah. Good for you.” Sam’s voice was drowning in sarcasm. “But this isn’t just your life on the line, Dean. You should know that Cas is going crazy too. He looks like he’s going to explode.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time Castiel’s exploded. Heh.”

“Get your ass back here, man!”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be back when–” A shadow fell over his booth. Dean looked up. And up. The tallest, widest, most house-like human being he’d ever seen was standing before him, staring down at Dean with a face like a bulldog chewing on a wasp. “Uh, hey,” Dean said, moving the phone away from his ear. “Personal bubble, dude. Mind backing off a ways?”

“You should have stayed hidden,” said the human tank.

Dean’s heart fell somewhere to the vicinity of the South Pole.

“It was very stupid of you to use that phone,” came another voice. Dean twisted round to find a middle-aged woman who looked like a gym instructor blocking his escape route. She was smiling in an extremely unfriendly way. “We were scanning the phone towers for Castiel’s name and your voice pattern. You really shouldn’t discuss your angel friend outside of the wards Balthazar must have placed on you. You were very reckless, human.”

“Personally, I consider recklessness to be an underrated virtue,” Dean quipped. He knew Sam could hear his every word, but he had no idea what good it would do. He was too far away to be any help, and he had no clue where Dean was anyway. Although that could be rectified... “So what brings you two lovely heavenly attack dogs to O’Flanagan’s Bar anyway?” Dean asked loudly. “Care to buy a few rounds? I hear the nice people here at _O’Flanagan’s Bar_ like it when you do that.”

“Castiel killed my lieutenant. I will enjoy making him suffer for his crimes,” said the tank. “We will rip that grace from inside you and tear you to shreds with our hands.”

Dean rose to his feet, pushing the table away to make more room to fight, although he already knew he was outgunned. “You guys ever heard the expression ‘All’s fair in love and war’? It might be worth thinking about here. Or how about ‘forgive and forget’?”

“We spit on his mutilated wings as we enter the gates of Heaven,” said the gym teacher, stepping forward. “We walk through his dripping, festering blood and curse his name. You have aligned yourself with the wrong angel, Dean Winchester.”

“I don’t think so,” Dean returned with a defiance he didn’t really feel. “He can count to four in a Transylvanian accent. Bet Raphael can’t do that with a straight face.”

Both angels tilted their heads, confused, and Dean was just wondering if he should be counting down the seconds to his evisceration when there was a soft rush of air and another angel was standing before him. Castiel staggered and fell backwards with a small cry, his body collapsing like a tower of cards. Dean’s reflexes were just sharp enough for him to catch the new arrival before he could hit the ground.

“Thought you couldn’t fly?” he asked, and then the world moved and Dean was standing in the living room of their apartment with an incredibly heavy weight in his arms and Sam crying his name in surprise somewhere off to his left.

“Whoa,” Dean yelped, falling to his knees as Castiel’s twitching body dragged him down. Sam hit the carpet beside him and they took an arm each, pulling Castiel up and away, but it was clear that something huge and very, very bad had happened to him. He started to scream, throwing his head back and almost convulsing beneath their grip, every muscle in his body tightening until he seemed to be made of steel and wire. They placed him on his side in some kind of facsimile of the recovery position, but it had no effect: he shivered wildly, eyes rolling white and throat filled with jagged roars of pain, fists clenching in front of him as though he was trying to crush coal into diamonds in his palms.

“Cas!” Dean yelled, placing a hand on his neck and feeling the surge of weirdness that came with the grace inside him trying to connect with the angel. Castiel screamed sharply at the contact, opening his eyes just long enough to acknowledge Dean’s presence before lifting two arms and shoving him halfway across the room in a gesture that couldn’t be read as anything other than _Fuck you!_

Dean hit a bookshelf and thumped to the floor amid a rain of books that hurt like hell. Somewhere inside him, the hummingbirds danced a waltz with the whiskey in his gut and he almost retched.

“You okay?” Sam asked, appearing at his side and squeezing his arm.

“I think he’s pissed at me, Sammy,” Dean groaned, struggling to sit upright.

“Yeah, well, he’s got a point there, considering you being a jackass and all. But what the hell is wrong with him?”

Balthazar was suddenly standing in the middle of the room, accompanied by the fizzing, flickering lights that signaled an angel’s presence. He glanced down at Castiel writhing at his feet and stared across at Dean with an altogether terrifying look on his face.

“I just killed two angels who tripped one of my wards,” Balthazar growled. “This building was almost compromised. Tell me you had a good reason to be in that bar.”

Dean swallowed. “I had a good reason to be in that bar.”

Balthazar’s eyes narrowed to slits. He glared at Dean in clear disbelief and then dropped to his knees beside Castiel. The moment his hand hit his forehead, Castiel stilled and was silent, twitching gently and panting like a dog on a hot day. Balthazar took one of his arms and rolled him sideways, staring at his back wordlessly before placing him gently on the carpet again. One eyeblink later, he was holding Dean up against the half-empty bookcase with a hand around his neck.

“Why were you out of this apartment?” he hissed, voice low with menace.

“I... I was going nuts.” There was no point lying.

Balthazar’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I’m sorry. Poor you! Were you going mad? Were you bored? Were you missing the outside world? You sad, lonely little lamb.” He knocked on Dean’s forehead with his knuckles. “Is there anything in this skull of yours other than salt, sawdust and splinters? I gave you one order, and one order only: _stay in this apartment._ I had no idea I said it in a language you didn’t understand!”

“Balthazar, come on. He made a mistake...” And that was all Sam said before Balthazar flicked him away. Sam was lifted bodily off the ground and landed on one of the enormous couches with a marginally comical bounce.

“I’m sorry,” Dean choked, because he really, desperately was. “Is Cas gonna be okay?”

Balthazar sneered, twisting his hand tighter around Dean’s throat. “You can’t see it, can you? All the blood and the broken bones?” Dean shook his head, eyes wide with apprehension. Balthazar leaned even closer. “Do you know what my brother just did to save your sorry arse? He _snapped his wings_ for you, you ungrateful, stupid imbecile! They were so new and so weak they broke into pieces when he had to carry your useless weight across Manhattan! He mutilated himself for you, Dean Winchester, and all because you were too stupid to stay indoors like a good little dog!”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said again, grabbing Balthazar’s wrist and trying to pull his hand away. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. He can grow them again, right? He’s going to be okay?”

“He’s in _pain_ ,” snarled Balthazar. He tossed Dean sideways until he fell in a heap in the middle of the glass coffee table, smashing it into shards that dug into his exposed arms and neck. He lay dazed, fighting the urge to puke, as Sam lifted him up and checked him over. Apparently he wasn’t going to bleed to death any time soon because Sam twisted to face Balthazar angrily.

“We didn’t mean this to happen,” he barked, furious. “It was an accident!”

“Ah. And that makes it all okay, does it? That makes Castiel’s agony less important?” The angel took a step forward, every pore on his body oozing menace.

From across the room, Castiel made a pained, strangled, urgent sound. Everybody looked at him. He was on his hands and knees, shaking violently, staring at Balthazar in warning.

“He does this to you and you want me to back off?” Balthazar asked, incredulous. Castiel didn’t move, but it was obvious from the look on his face that he was ordering Balthazar to stay put. For a moment the room almost crackled with electricity and then Balthazar sighed and turned away. “And yet again he favors you. This is getting tedious. One day, Winchester, Castiel won’t turn up to save you and you’ll die in the bloody puddle that you deserve.”

“I’m carrying his grace,” Dean pointed out, shuddering, suddenly sick of angels and grace and the whole nine yards. “He wasn’t just saving me. He was saving himself. He could just as easily have left me to die otherwise.”

Balthazar shot him a sharp, angry look. “You really are clueless, aren’t you, sweetie?”

Dean blinked. “About what?”

“How many more signs do you need? Don’t you have eyes?”

Sam shot Dean a baffled look. They both turned to face Balthazar again. “Huh?” said Dean, wincing as a shard of glass dug into his wrist.

“He disobeyed for you,” said Balthazar in that _you’re too stupid to live_ voice of his. “He died for you. He lost his wings for you. And he just rescued you and tore himself apart in the process. He’d do anything for you, don’t you see it? The stupid fool’s in love with you.”

Sam choked out a laugh. Dean stared up at Balthazar as though he’d lost his mind, although once the initial shock passed, he wasn’t that sure.

“I’m just his friend,” he said, his voice sounding small and unconvincing even to him.

“Some friend,” scoffed Balthazar. “Is that why I can smell him all over you? You’re awash with him, and not just because of his grace. You two had sex, didn’t you? And that’s why you ran out into the streets – it was a fit of morning-after pique.” He laughed, folding his arms. “And here was me thinking the females of your species were supposed to be the hormonal ones. You humans are such ridiculously emotional creatures.”

Sam turned to look at Dean with a smile on his face that he was clearly expecting to be returned. It was a smile that said, _This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Balthazar is insane, isn’t he?_ When Dean didn’t return it, lowering his eyes to the ground instead, the smile vanished.

“Er... Dean,” Sam said slowly, “tell me he’s not serious.”

Dean couldn’t have formed words then if he’d wanted to. For a few moments he was as speechless as Castiel.

“Oh trust me, Sammy dear, they did the dirty deed alright,” Balthazar stirred, suddenly sounding quite cheerful. “And about time too – my _dahling_ brother’s been a virgin for far too long. It’s a shame he’s got such bad taste in partners, but on the other hand, it could have been worse.” He paused, looked thoughtful for few seconds and then shook his head. “Although come to think of it, no. It couldn’t have been worse than _you_.”

“Dean didn’t have sex with Cas,” Sam said flatly. “No way. That’s not even Cas’s body.”

Balthazar snorted. “Oh, please. That vessel’s been empty since before I faked my own death. It’s his as much as anyone’s. And a good thing too – if our Cassie had had sex with Dean while in his true form, Dean would be a puddle of fried goo by now. Also, angels are rather, shall we say, well-endowed. I’d say Dean’s a big arse at the best of times, but no human’s arse is _that_ big.”

“I’m going to barf,” Dean declared, putting a hand over his eyes. “Someone find me a bucket.”

“You had sex with Castiel?” Sam said, sounding absolutely stunned. “Seriously? What were you _thinking_?”

“I’ll let you two girls discuss the merits of angel-humping, shall I?” Balthazar announced, his anger completely dissipated in the face of such wanton gossip-mongering. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just be setting all of Cassie’s pesky broken bones. If you hear screaming, rest assured it’s all your fault.”

He vanished. So did Castiel. The Winchesters looked around them, puzzled, and then one of the bedroom doors slammed shut. Balthazar had decided to minister to his brother in private.

Dean brushed glass off his jeans and examined the small cuts on his forearms. He couldn’t look at Sam. He just couldn’t. His mind was racing, half-relieved (Jimmy wasn’t in that body, thank heaven he hadn’t accidentally raped the poor guy) and half-horrified. Castiel had torn his wings to shreds for him. If Dean hadn’t been so stupid and so self-absorbed it wouldn’t have happened. Balthazar was right to be angry; Dean was furious with himself, too. However, the moment he summoned up the courage to glance up at his brother, everything evaporated except for an overwhelming feeling of embarrassment.

“You and Cas,” Sam said carefully. His face was blank.

Dean sniffed. He stared down at his hands. “I know it’s not really an excuse, but we were really, really, spectacularly drunk. Hammered beyond belief. I’m amazed we could even move, let alone do... er...” Words failed him. He shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m discussing gay angel sex with my brother.”

“You and Cas,” Sam said again.

Dean sighed. “I’ve got his grace inside me. It wanted to... I dunno, connect with him.”

“So you couldn’t help yourself?” Sam sounded thoughtful. “It was like... like... magnets or something?”

Oh, how Dean wanted to believe that, but he knew he couldn’t. “No. I mean yes. I mean... If I’d been sober and didn’t have his grace, it wouldn’t have happened. But it did. And I don’t regret it. Not really. I don’t know. Oh, man, I’m so confused. And I really want to puke.”

Sam was quiet for a little while. Somewhere across the apartment, muffled by walls and wooden doors, Castiel let out a sound that was half-scream, half-sob. Balthazar was re-setting his wingbones. Dean shuddered at the thought, guilt washing over him and settling like a lead weight.

“I had no idea, man,” Sam said finally.

“If it makes you feel better, I didn’t, either. Sometimes I guess these things just... jump out at you.”

“Yeah. From a closet.”

Dean gave him a venomous look.

Sam flashed him a small, sympathetic smile in return.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Dean muttered.

“A little, yeah. So what now? Are you two going to skip off into the sunset together?”

Dean ran a hand down his face, noticing that it was shaking. “I doubt it. He read my mind this morning and thinks I hate him. I can’t explain that I was just having a big gay freak-out.”

Sam pursed his lips. “And how’s that goin’ for you?”

“Coming to an end now.”

“Mind if I have one?”

“Go right ahead.”

Sam blew out a breath and shook hair out of his eyes, leaning back on his heels. “Holy crap, Dean. I can’t believe this. You and Cas? He’s... he’s... well, he’s _Cas!_ ”

Dean sighed. “That’s just it, Sam. He’s Cas.”

And with that, he finally threw up.

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

Dean didn’t even wait for Balthazar to leave. He washed the puke out of his mouth, blood off his skin, pulled tiny splinters of glass from his elbows and collapsed into bed so hard he couldn’t even remember doing it. He only slept for a few hours, though. The rest of his night was spent tossing and turning in feverish heat, feeling the grace roll and sizzle inside him. The heat was so bad he kicked off the sheets and removed most of his clothes, opening the windows to let in the chilly April air but finding it was no help at all. Eventually he took a cold shower, but its effects didn’t last very long.

He was burning up, and Castiel was in no shape to take back his grace any time soon. Dean was starting to realize that he could be in trouble.

Not long after dawn he paid a visit to the angel, who was asleep in a tangle of sheets in the huge bed that made him look tiny. He looked a whole lot better than he had the night before, but as Dean lingered he saw him grimace and moan, stirring restlessly, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Dean swallowed, that leaden feeling of guilt pulling him down, wondering how the hell it had come to this. He pictured Castiel sensing that he was in trouble and having to decide whether to risk a rescue. Had he weighed up his options first? Had he wondered if he was strong enough? Had he been worried that his new wings might not hold him? Had he prayed they’d last while he brought Dean back with him? Dean remembered how Castiel had collapsed when he’d materialized in the bar and tried to imagine how it must have felt, being in all that pain and knowing he still had to fly home, bones shattering, tendons tearing...

He left Castiel and returned to his own bedroom, splashing water on his face in the ensuite bathroom, fighting another bout of nausea. He supposed the one good thing was that Castiel’s wings hadn’t been ripped off this time: they were merely broken. Hopefully they’d heal fairly quickly – it wasn’t as though Castiel had to grow them from scratch again. And maybe, just maybe, the angel could accept his grace back sooner, rather than later.

Dean had to hope so. The alternative was him being barbecued alive from the inside while he waited.

He was lying forlornly on a couch with an ice pack on his forehead later that morning when Sam finally deigned him with his presence. “Hey,” Sam said, casting a worried eye over his brother’s reclining form. “You okay?”

“I always knew I was hot, but this is ridiculous,” Dean grunted.

Sam fiddled with the clasp on his watch. “Balthazar said Cas should heal in a few days. It’s not like he has to completely re-grow his wings this time, just knit the bones together.”

Dean closed his eyes in relief. “At last, good news.”

“He said the wards are still safe and nobody knows we’re here, but we can’t go near any windows. I’ve drawn all the blinds, just in case.”

“Groovy.”

Sam fell silent. Dean opened his eyes to stare up at him. “What?”

“You look like a tomato. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so red.”

“I would say ‘bite me’ but seeing as you just compared me to a vegetable, maybe not. You might get ideas. ”

Sam chuckled. “Tomatoes are fruit, dude.”

“ _You’re_ the fruit here.” The words had already left his lips before he realized they had a double meaning.

“That makes two of us, then,” Sam said amiably, and pulled the ice pack out of Dean’s grip. “This is melted. I’ll make you another.”

“Sam?”

His brother stilled, looking down at him. “Yeah?”

Dean licked his lips, pausing to gather his thoughts. “Uh. Thanks for not freaking out about... y’know. It means a lot.”

“About you and Cas, or about the fact I had to clean up your puke last night? Either way, I’m cool. And only one of them was gross.”

He was halfway to the kitchen before Dean called after him, worried: “The puke was gross. You meant the _puke_ was gross, right?”

“You haven’t eaten a carrot since you were 12, but they were still in there!” Sam called back. “You’re a freak of nature!”

“Right,” said Dean, relaxing back on the couch. “Puke is gross.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

He slept for most of the day, on and off between hideous bursts of heat, then showered again. It didn’t cool him down. He felt breathless and a little dizzy, too, as if his temperature wasn’t enough to be contending with. Determined not to let it defeat him, Dean wandered out to the kitchen and watched Sam making chili with a weary fascination for a little while before suddenly realizing he was making _chili_.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he asked, incredulous.

“There’s ice cream in the freezer if you want that instead,” Sam offered idly, rinsing a bowl.

Actually, now Dean thought about it, he wasn’t hungry at all. “Nyah. Gonna go see Cas,” he said, sliding off the stool. If Sam saw him throwing out a trembling hand to steady himself, he didn’t mention it.

Castiel was awake and sitting upright in bed, staring at nothing in that creepy-blank angel way of his. When Dean appeared in the doorway, however, he shot him a pointed, eloquent glare and looked away, the muscles in his neck and jaw twitching. He was seriously angry. Dean didn’t have to hear him speak to know that; it was written all over his face. He thought again about how Castiel had flown with his wings shattering into pieces around him and swallowed down bile.

“I’m sorry,” he said, approaching the bed. “I should’ve stayed here. I was an idiot. I ran away like a coward, and look where it got you.”

Castiel, of course, said nothing.

“I don’t regret it. Us, I mean. What we did the other night. I really don’t. I regret you thinking I regret it, that’s all. Er, if that makes sense. Look, Cas, we’ve been through so much and I don’t want you to think I don’t care about you. I do. I’m just... I’m just... _me_. I’m an asshole, Cas, you know that. I needed some time to get my head together.”

Castiel wouldn’t even look at him, staring across the room at nothing instead. Dean tried to move into his line of sight but Castiel looked away. Sighing, Dean saw the notebook on the bed and picked it up; the picture of him with his heart colored in was still on the top. He turned the page and held the pen ready to draw something – an apology, an explanation, anything. But there was nothing to draw. He couldn’t apologize in an image: how could he? His mind was blank. He stared down at the page and dropped it back on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and walked out of the room.

He woke up on the floor several minutes later, shaking like a leaf and with the strong, familiar taste of blood on his tongue. Sam was leaning over him anxiously, patting a hand on his cheek as though he’d been trying to wake him.

“S-Sam?”

“Dean?”

Dean shuddered, blinking slowly to clear his hazy vision. “Why am I on the carpet?”

“You passed out. One minute you were walking and then you were kissing the floor. I saw you fall but I couldn’t get to you in time. I think you bit your tongue.”

Dean registered a sharp, throbbing pain in his mouth and figured he was right. “I fainted?” he said, aghast. “I didn’t know I felt that bad.”

“Well, you do. Obviously. Come on, Gracie, let’s get you to bed.”

“D-don’t call me Gracie. That’s not–”

As Sam tugged him upwards by one arm, everything went black again.

 

~ ~ ~

 

It was dark the next time Dean opened his eyes, the soft glow of a bedside lamp bathing the room in a rosy light. He was lying on his bed wearing nothing more than his boxers, bags of ice precariously balanced over his neck, wrists and pelvis. One sat on his heart and something cold and soothing soaked his forehead. He was too weak to lift his head, so they stayed in place as he tried to figure out what was going on. How had he ended up in bed? Why was it dark now?

“Sam?” he called, nowhere near as loudly as he’d intended, but his brother heard him nevertheless. He appeared in the doorway and reached his side in two strides.

“It’s okay, Dean. Take it easy.”

“What happened?”

Sam placed a hand on his shoulder. “You keep passing out. You’ve got a bad fever. It’s okay, the ice is helping.”

Dean had to think long and hard about a lot of things before he could form the next sentence. “Cas’s... grace. He has to have it back.”

“We tried.” Sam’s expression dropped. “As soon as he realized you were sick he tried to, I don’t know, suck it out of you, I guess. But it wouldn’t budge. I think he’s still too sick and it won’t go to him. But if I understand him right, he may be healed enough tomorrow. You just have to wait a bit longer.”

“Super,” Dean murmured. “That’s just super.”

“Go back to sleep, okay? The time will pass quicker.”

Dean snorted. “I used to say that to you when you were sick. You never went back to sleep.”

“That’s because I was a stubborn son-of-a-bitch,” Sam agreed, grinning. “And so are you, but you’re going to sleep now. Okay?”

“Okay.” Dean closed his eyes. A few moments later he opened them again to find that Sam hadn’t moved. He licked his lips, struck by a thought. “Did Cas kiss me?”

“Yeah, he had to. I think that’s the only way he can transfer his grace.”

Dean shivered. “Uh-huh. I thought I could... I thought I could taste him. He tastes nice.”

“Get some sleep, man.”

“Jellybeans,” Dean muttered, his eyelids flickering closed.

“Castiel tastes of jellybeans?”

“Yeah. No. I want some. Jellybeans.”

“Maybe later, Dean. Rest.”

Dean rested, except he really didn’t.

 

~ ~ ~

 

He dreamed of colored candy and the fiery furnaces of Hell. He dreamed of blood and feathers, of arcing through empty skies like a bird, of feeling nerves severed by a silver sword. He dreamed of Castiel’s body against his, of their legs entwined with each other, of their cocks hungry for friction and mouths desperate for kisses. He dreamed of the shtriga who almost killed Sam as a kid; the Siren who tricked him into thinking he had a new, better brother; the look in Lucifer’s eyes as Sam had snapped back into him and taken control of his body. He dreamed that Lisa and Ben were dead and he dreamed that his father had killed them. He dreamed of heat and fire and pain.

He dreamed, and then he woke up.

The bedroom was gray and rain smashed against the window glass, hidden from view by the curtains. There was a storm outside, a storm so wild it sounded dangerous. Dean thought of tornadoes and tried to lift himself off the mattress, determined to hide in the bathtub because obviously he couldn’t just lie here, but hands pushed him back down again. He couldn’t focus on their faces. There were four hands so it had to be two people, but Dean could see shadowy shapes around them: demons, spirits. The room was full of them. He tried to move again but the hands were too strong for him. “No,” he gasped, lifting a hand to push one of the shadows away. “Let me go!”

“You’re okay,” said a voice. “Dean, please stop fighting us!”

“Have to... have to hide...”

“Dean!” A palm impacted painfully on his cheek and Dean hissed in a breath. Sam hovered before him, his expression faintly apologetic. “I’m sorry, but you’re freaking out, dude. Calm down.”

“Sammy? Sam?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

Dean had a moment of lucidity which was promptly followed by a longer moment of outrage. “Don’t slap me again, dickwad.”

“Keep still then, jerk.”

Darkness closed in. Dean fought terrifically hard, desperate to regain his senses, hating the way he kept fading in and out. Everything stretched thin in his vision and flipped sideways, like someone was messing with the signal on a TV screen. “I’m gonna puke,” he announced, and Sam helped him sit up before pushing a bucket into his hands. He didn’t throw up, though. He battled the feeling for a long time before handing the bucket back and resting his head on his pillow. Sam said something about water and Dean said no, then dozed for a little while. His dreams were horrible.

When he woke again he saw that Castiel was sitting a few feet away, staring at him with his usual angelic impassivity, as though he was utterly incapable of displaying any kind of emotion on his face. Dean reached over to him on instinct. Castiel stared at his hand, hesitant, seemingly struggling to figure out what he should do next. Then he threaded his fingers through Dean’s gently.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Dean panted, not really sure why he was apologizing but feeling he had to. “Please forgive me, Cas, please.”

Castiel’s stern expression softened a little. He squeezed Dean’s hand and placed a palm on his forehead. “Count,” he said, leaning down to his ear. “Vun, _ha ha ha._ I love to count. I... _love._ ”

“W-what? What did you say?” Dean asked, absolutely baffled.

Castiel leaned back, looking a little embarrassed. He met Sam’s quizzical look with a shrug, then took a deep, strengthening breath. Dean watched him in mild alarm as he appeared to be gathering himself for something huge, wondering if he was going to snap his wings out of his body or glow with the heat of a thousand suns. When Castiel merely bent to meet his lips, Dean shied away.

“Let him do this,” said Sam soothingly. “He’s going to help you.”

Dean stared into Castiel’s eyes and saw something in them that calmed him. “Okay,” he said, relaxing a little. “Okay.”

They kissed. Fire flowed from human to angel in a slow, scorching river of heat that made Dean want to scream. He was too weak to fight it; too exhausted to struggle, too drained to do anything except lie there, feeling the fire burning his throat and his body emptying out. Light twinkled around them and Castiel began to shine. The more he shone, the harder it was for Dean to stay awake.

“Cool,” said Sam somewhere a million miles away, and then Dean was cold and empty and asleep.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Castiel was gone when Dean woke up, as was the terrible, burning sensation that had consumed his body for weeks. Dean placed a hand on his stomach and rubbed his skin, missing the feeling that had become so familiar, the one that told him he wasn’t alone. He wondered if the grace had tasted of him when Castiel had swallowed it down again, but when he prayed to the angel in the hope of asking him, Castiel didn’t reply.

Although that was hardly a surprise.

 

~ ~ ~

 

He was hunting with Sam again a week later. It was a complicated case, a slew of ghosts in an old cannery left over from an explosion at the turn of the 19th century that had killed 20 workers. The brothers spent night after night burning bones and salting remains, trying to avoid being arrested by the site’s security teams and escaping the spirits’ vengeance by luck, skill and a whole lot more luck. It was exhausting, but it was a good, honest hunt and by the time it was over Dean felt fantastic.

Well, fantastic up to a point. He was healthy again. Cold, even, which was a nice change. But he missed Castiel so much it never ceased to amaze him. He saw that trenchcoat everywhere they went – in the street, in bars, on the sidewalk as he drove past. He felt hollow inside, the empty space in his belly filled with nothing but air and ice. He missed Castiel’s _I don’t understand you_ expression, the way he’d stick his tongue out of his mouth a little way while he concentrated on a drawing, the way he smiled when alcohol had finally loosened him up enough to act like a normal human being. He missed waking up in the night and going in to check on him as he slept, however embarrassing that was to think about. He missed him being there, period, and for all that it made him feel like a schoolgirl pining over her first crush, there was nothing he could do about it. Castiel had settled inside him in more ways than one.

Dean wanted to touch him again, to kiss him again, to lie beside him again and wrap himself around him. It was an ache that hurt more than the grace had ever managed to hurt him, and although he didn’t say anything to Sam, he could sense that his brother knew. Sam even prayed for Castiel to stop by himself, but nothing happened.

“I guess he’s busy,” Sam said, as his prayers were resolutely unanswered. “He was away from Heaven for a month and all hell could have broken loose up there.”

“Yeah,” said Dean, forcing his body to be casual and the disappointment in his voice to sound matter-of-fact. “He’s probably sick of hanging around with us anyway.”

They tumbled into bed at 3am, worn out from their hunt, smelling faintly of smoke and sweat.

At 3.34am, Dean woke to find himself standing in a moonlit Central Park on the battlements of Belvedere Castle, home of The Count and, it seemed, a very weary-looking angel.

“Hello, Dean,” said Castiel.

Dean staggered slightly, trying to grapple with the fact he was both awake and standing upright, before glancing down at his boxers. “Dude, if you’re gonna go plucking me out of bed at godawful o’clock, the least you could do is allow me the dignity of clothes.”

Castiel placed his hands in his pockets. “We need to talk. Clothing isn’t relevant.”

Dean swallowed. “I think clothing – or the lack thereof – is pretty damn relevant to what we need to talk about right now.” He peered over at Castiel, whose expression was unreadable. “How are the wings?”

“Almost new, thank you.” Castiel seemed careworn and creased, nothing like that giggling guy who’d so drunkenly changed Dean’s life. He looked as though he was sick and tired of a great many things: fighting, worrying, leading an army and, most importantly of all as far as Dean was concerned, having to deal with difficult human emotions. He wondered if Castiel had missed him too, or if he’d somehow scrubbed the feeling away to concentrate on more important matters. The war in Heaven had to be tough.

“You okay?” Dean asked, unable to keep the concern out of his voice.

Castiel met his gaze, earnest and forthright. “Dean, I need you to know that I would never have given you my grace if I had known what I was doing. It was instinct. I was in so much pain and I was desperate... It was a last resort, and one I shouldn’t have taken. I would have done anything to undo the transference earlier, too, if only I could have.”

“I get that, don’t worry. I saw what happened to you, Cas. Raphael tore you to pieces. I can’t even imagine how you must have been feeling.”

Castiel smiled grimly. “Raphael pinned my wings on the gates of Heaven. I tore them down yesterday. He has made more enemies than he could have imagined by doing something so foul.”

Dean nodded, relieved. “Glad to hear it. That douche needs to go, and fast.”

Castiel turned away. There was a long pause, during which time Dean tried frantically to figure out what he wanted to say. “I’m sorry,” he said at last, at precisely the same moment that Castiel said it, too. They both looked at each other, surprised. “You go first,” Dean offered, leaning back on the stone battlements. His stomach flipped. This time it was genuine human nerves rather than angelic grace making him queasy.

“What we did was foolish,” Castiel said, after a few beats.

“Yeah,” Dean replied. “You won’t get an argument from me on that count.”

“It should never have happened.”

“I know.”

“I was unwell, and your judgment was impaired by my grace. And we were inebriated. Massively so. It was amazing we could even function given the quantities of liquor we had imbibed.”

Dean chuckled. “Oh, we _functioned_ alright.”

Castiel seemed slightly caught out by that, staring at him in what could only be consternation. “You find this funny?”

“Of course it’s funny, Cas. We drank every drop of booze in the apartment and jumped each other’s bones like a couple of teenagers.”

The angel’s face hardened. “We are not teenagers.”

Dean studied him, swallowing down his nerves. “I’m sorry you thought I regretted it,” he declared, trying to _feel_ it at the same time in case Castiel could pick up on his thoughts. “I was confused. And dumb. It was a shock, is all. I was never expecting anything like that to happen.”

“With me,” Castiel said, his voice sounding bitter.

“With a _guy_ ,” Dean corrected. “It wasn’t you, not really. I just... I just couldn’t believe I’d slept with a man. It’s a big deal down here, in case you hadn’t noticed. Real life-changing stuff.”

“I am aware there’s a stigma attached,” Castiel said stiffly. “But you never seem to care much for social acceptance.”

“And you’re right.” Dean nodded, stepping closer to him. “I don’t. I don’t care who does what in bed as long as they all have fun. But it was still a shock, especially at my age. Most guys figure this shit out when they’re in college or something. Or earlier. Not when they’re too old to get carded any more.”

“Carded?”

Dean sighed, ignoring him. “And that’s not all. I thought maybe I’d violated Jimmy, you know? That he was in there, and we’d had sex without his permission–”

“Jimmy is no longer here.”

“I know, Balthazar told me. And that’s good. But you can see how that freaked me out.”

Castiel’s eyebrows rose. “You once took me to a house of ill-repute to have sexual relations with a prostitute. I assumed such matters wouldn’t concern you.”

“I guess it’s different when it’s me jumping his bones.” Dean rubbed his forehead, feeling guilty. “I should’ve thought about it that other time, too. That was pretty sick of me.”

Castiel scowled. “It would have been of no import either way. Jimmy gave his permission for me to use his body.”

“But he didn’t give his permission for _me_ to use his body.”

Castiel gazed at him for a while, then turned and leaned on the battlements, staring off across Central Park. It was a mass of shadows, the moonlight and the glow from the buildings on either side of the space not doing much to illuminate the trees. The lake before them was beautiful, though, the moon’s reflection rippling in the wind. Dean came to stand at Castiel’s side and stared down at it, his thoughts far away.

“This is very complicated,” Castiel grumbled. “I thought you were sickened by what we’d done. That by having sexual relations we had somehow... ruined our friendship.”

“It would take a lot more than a few orgasms for that to happen, Cas. I just needed time to get used to the idea. It was a shock. And I didn’t even know for a while there if what I was feeling about you was true – I thought your grace had brainwashed me.”

Castiel glanced over at him. “I take it you don’t think that now.”

“No. All it did was give me a nudge.”

“That was some nudge,” Castiel observed ruefully, and Dean chuckled.

They stared out at the trees again.

“Must be good being able to talk again, huh?” Dean asked, after a while.

“It does make life easier, yes.”

“It’s weird seeing you without your notepad.”

Castiel reached into his pocket and pulled it out; the picture of Dean was on the uppermost page. They stared down at it together before Castiel ripped it out and crumpled it in his fist. “I came here to tell you I could wipe your mind and we could start afresh,” he announced. “I almost did it without telling you beforehand, but I thought it was only fair to give you the choice.”

“I see you’re learning about humans, Cas,” Dean said, nudging him on the shoulder. “Messing with our heads without asking is always a no-no.”

“So you would prefer to remember?”

Dean thought about it. He really, genuinely thought about it. He thought about how much easier his life would be if he had never gotten so close to Castiel; about how this weird _thing_ between them would vanish and they could just go about their business without awkwardness or flashbacks.

“You’d always remember though, wouldn’t you?” he asked, after deciding that the benefits of a brain-wipe didn’t outweigh the pleasant memories.

“Yes. I would.”

Dean scratched his cheek, playing with his stubble. “I don’t think I like the idea of you knowing what I’m like in the sack without me knowing the same about you in return.”

Castiel peered at him. “Which sack are you referring to?”

“Bed, Cas. _Bed._ There is no sack.”

Castiel looked up at the sky. “Sometimes I don’t understand what you’re saying even when I _do_ understand what you’re saying.”

Dean blinked. “Did that even make sense?”

“What now, Dean?” Castiel asked, turning to face him, leaning a hip on the stone wall. “There is something between us that wasn’t there before. An... intimacy.” He sighed, looking crestfallen. “Desire,” he added, saying it as though it was anathema to his very existence.

“There’s nothing wrong with a bit of desire,” Dean told him sternly. “Look where it led us last time. You can’t deny that was pretty great.”

Castiel tried hard to look immune to the thought, but failed. “It was... interesting,” he said eventually.

“That’s one word for it. Personally I’d have gone with ‘sexy as hell’.”

“It was sexy as hell,” agreed Castiel, and a smile stole across his face. “You were a good lover, Dean.”

“I still am,” Dean assured him, catching his breath in his throat, and then their lips met. The wind rustled in the trees and the faint smell of apple blossom surrounded them. Somewhere off in the distance a police siren wailed. And then it all went away until it was just a human and an angel sharing a long, intimate, _interesting_ moment.

“Vun, _ha ha ha_ ,” said Dean when they parted, his Transylvanian accent even worse than Castiel’s had been. “Guess we’re totally making out in the Count’s pad, huh?”

Castiel’s eyes twinkled with surprise, followed by mirth. “He was a curious creature. I couldn’t understand why he repeated everything. But the repetition helped me to order my thoughts, even if I didn’t really know what I was saying when I sang with him.”

“He broke the ice between us,” Dean said, realizing he owed all of this to a puppet, as crazy as that sounded. “Without him you wouldn’t have spoken and we probably wouldn’t have drunk so much.”

“I love to count,” Castiel said with a small smile, pulling Dean closer with a firm hand on his ass. “One...” He kissed his ear. “Two...” He kissed his jaw. “Three...” He kissed his nose.

“I’m glad you didn’t get your inspiration from Oscar the Grouch,” Dean observed, craning his head back.

“I could sit and count all day,” Castiel sang softly, moving in to lick Dean’s neck provocatively. “Sometimes I get carried away...”

“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean replied, snaking a hand up his body to cradle his chin, then pulling him forward for a kiss. “There’s no need to say another word. Just... be quiet.”

“I think I can do that,” Castiel whispered against Dean’s lips, and then both of them were silent under the soft glow of the moon.

 

 

~ ~ ~


End file.
